all we do is forget
we wake, having to remember
this cycle of ours must repeat.
what for, then,
are we trying to do by keeping our memories dear,
whilst we pretend they will never disappear?
it is barely reconcilable,
Mother's smile in that one photo,
as if it was static on a blurry CRT TV.
the past is but a song with its lyrics removed,
untranslated dreams of childhood heroes,
that conversation with a certain Jane doe
And There it is,
the faint echo
of a former present melted into the past
it cannot be recovered
yet, it still remains
its incomplete form a reminder maybe,
of our bygone selves.
so that our past can birth the future,
so that we can take comfort in who we were.
Once upon a time.