Wrinkling

It makes little sense to write poetry:
erecting effulgent effigies lost
simply when age replaces memory
and warm content makes way for nervous frost.

Simplicity spills onto crisp pages
but escapes any real understanding.
What memories could survive the ages
with a writing style so demanding?

But, could it be possible perhaps that
through ink, memory could be enhanced
and language could guide us into the past?
I would readily take that chance,

for I would sooner read endlessly than
lie forever wrinkling and forget.