the past has places memory can’t reach,
where time’s own passing draws a veil across
unfolding scenes: in time, each quiet loss
leaves stains that even age can’t bleach –
the past has places memory can’t reach,
and in recalling times long past the gloss
on time is like a stone’s long-gathered moss…
yet there are things imaginations teach;
where memory obfuscates the truth, the mind
will grow a little younger in the calling
of a purer age once sadly left behind,
and in the slow refilling of the space
with memories, the volatile rephrase
of madness and a fatal skyward falling