My mind was once such a sketchpad,
Paltry yet functional,
Full of images from the past,
Smiles and carousels,
Downpours and cataclysms,
Penned by revels and crises long gone,
I remembered them all,
The ink I thought was dry,

But pens sometimes leak,
The ink seeps out,
Or runs off the page,
So many faces and names,
Escaped into the aether,
Like so many convicts,
It’s nothing personal,
But my memory is only sketches,

Too finely etched,
And easily besmirched.

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Comments
  1. Carol anne says:

    this is a cool piece! Well done ❀

  2. You nailed it! I think that your line:
    “I thought was dry”
    -speaks Volumes in this context.
    One rarely knows as much one thinks; and even less than one actually remembers as time goes by.😊
    Well penned and poignant. Bravo!!

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