Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us.
Train tickets and movies gone by,
Stuff which made all of us smile and may be in dark corners cry.
Of photos and lost words many which will not reach the page,
Unwritten stories from a long forgotten sage.
Dates and times and days and rhymes,
Fixed frames and animated blurs,
Of sketched faces and erased lines,
Them ragged lines for them forgotten funny times.
Namless faces on blank pages all in an unwritten scrawl,
Of days marched by and love come shy.
For poking chides and tears to fall,
For words which mean nothing.
And nothing that means so much more...
For a lonely soul when love is amiss,
Tears do fall on those blank pages like a long forgotten kiss.
Through blurred lines and dark thought,
The cover is closed to find that which is most sought.
A man's real possesion is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.
