Sometimes, I wish I had a photographic memory.
This is not conventional poetry. It is a peek into a moment of time. Take one out to read it too.
In pill boxes, in shoe boxes, in silver foil packages, in odd containers, in hidden pockets, I have stored memories. Lovingly cramped in corners, waiting to be fathomed in the wee hours of the morn when the mind endures deep anguish for a lost cause. It is to these I turn, picking up the thousand shards carelessly scattered, desperately clinging to the transience. They rise, only to vanish into thin air, hanging around me in a silvery cloud, a tantalizing sheen it is. I dare not breathe , I stare transfixed into nothingness. I reach out, clasping the unknown. I wield to the fear boiling inside, transferring fistfuls of the gleaming air to a Tupperware jar. I seal it airtight, placing it among the other cherished rejects.
For Better Or Verse 