Strata
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
Our memories bring us home to more than just
Ourselves, or rather to those selves that we
Once were and later. Souvenirs are trussed
Up in the gray synapses. If they free
Them to our consciousness, we see the past
But often only as we want to view
It. Some, a few, would leave our hearts aghast
So these we stuff away. Some others strew
Themselves in night-time visions as we sleep.
The ones we want, we turn to daydreams. These
Become our treasures. Such are what we keep
And cut and polish. Wishes are their keys.
..Curating carefully our brains create
….False pasts. Grasped truths are forced to abdicate.