is memory just an idiot light?

I am not worthy of memory's wealth.

I would be lying

by apparently telling the truth.

understanding is slim pickings of any narrative.

I don't have time-share

when story-telling.

one gets bits and pieces,

a background wall

and a story-teller for a light.

read all you want into it,

but it's a fantasy journey of the mind.

for I have watched 

the worth of a moment remembered

go through decades of recovery and return

and the savorily scintillation suffered severely,

from gems into shrapnel,

from glow into glob,

from pivotals into wondered forks in the road,

from embodiments into remembered animations.

even the wearing of glasses, 

that have their own shelf life,

does not give re-corrective account.

surely I can describe anything from the past,

but more as graffiti 

than historical works of art.

linearity is so many dimensions short of enactment.

in all honesty of the moment,

truth lies unceasingly.

anything put into words

is discovered to be a contextual lie.

oh sure, I can give you a canvass setting.

I can provide for a medium of pursuit,

but damn if I can make your mind to be

as if, having actually been there.

can we, at all, weep for a past,

that has lost it way of being current?

possibly with tears of laughter.

our predicament of being in time

makes us all clowns of remembrance's worth.

even now has a falsehood of stature

yet it goes on, undenied.

if memory only this moment of worth to spend,

where the imprint went no further,

how blessed would that be?

imagine emotion having the presence of this moment,

as its creation ,

as if an artist without any further medium need.

it's like an empty zest,

dressing up in all that is evident,

with an endless supply of art supplies,

that keep arriving in such a timely manner.

memory is such a task of burden

when time is the path, 

we put it on . . .