Memories are

Memories

are brutal

in their infancy,

much more

beautiful in

their adolescence,

yet quite more

honest

in their maturity

are memories

bound to our being

like shadows cast

on a garden wall

where a rose bush

bent, stands crutched

to a stake of wood,

delicate are it’s thorns

our memories

they too are.

our dying days

Was she ever happy

or was she just pretending?

Was I?

I agree to disbelieve any such questions.

Foolish notions.

I’ve given it far too much energy

to accept such nonsense

and far too little to concede.

What a crime to disregard our time

together no matter how wild

or foot-dragging it was.

I may be a fool but I’m not a foolish fool.

A pity? No.

We were glorious in our infancy

and though covered in blood and tears

marvelous in our dying days.

So many histories

So many lives

cherished

and now

this.