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.