What would be the flavor of your memories?
Are they sweet like honey?
like the sea?
Would they be bitter, or lacking in taste?
Have an abundance, plenty to waste?
To take for granted, all the laughter and joy,
the memories being your personal toy
That you can look back on.
That you can be fond of,
and not have a single regret.
Even for the ones that make you upset.
Is the mind like a giant Library,
with each book being a memory?
That you can take off the shelf,
that what makes you yourself?
What if we lost those precious books,
when we start to lose our looks?
If we don't know our daughter or son,
and in the end have neither one.
Memories are so delicate, fragile.
We take them for granted, and end up in denial.
Denial that there’s something wrong,
and that there was no one there all along.
That those friends you saw with fondness,
now turn into monsters you detest.
They go from confidants to traitors,
after you pull back the multiple layers.
And see that memories are tricky, and deceive your senses always.