An Elegy

So, though I put little stock in prefaces like this: here is an incredibly rough draft of my unfamiliar genre.

I.
Third Sunday of June,
and I'm caught in the dark
arranging my emotions
like any man should.

The images on the screen
are stirring what I had long
laid to rest. Or so
I had convinced myself.

II.
I've been confirmed then,
years ago, that what I
had begun to think of as a
dream was experience.

Conviction--first--then
dwindling to an absence--void--
unclear distinction of what is
now growing.

III.
Stirred from bed, I arise
and lay my hand against brown,
winged, insects that paint the wall,
moving only slightly my touch.

Outside, tail lights cut through the darkness
leaving me it their wake, ushered
back inside by strangers
before the engine dies, or understanding--