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Memories


Fickle is the judgement 
When I talk of a person. 
Heckle I do, 
To accede her association. 
In a trickle flows her flood 
Of vacillations that are venomous 
O'er the past that never peter 
And the present that power passions. 
Aided by a lovely freckle 
Sweetened by the gentle treacle, 
Pacted they a possible future 
Of kids, Kleenex and Crocin. 
Then, to take apart her soul 
And lay bare her vulnerabilities 
Had he any right or reason? 
To heal her heart 
And dull the pain 
Does she hit out or hurt in? 
Nights pass the day 
Awaiting in silence to torment her thoughts. 
Days pass the night 
To whisk her away from reliving events past. 
This raging memory 'slaught she fought, 
And emerged with hope, the modern love's lost art. 

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