The rainbow’d mist of memory,
Tells fond lies to the mind,
diffusing bitter moments,
that are better viewed half blind.
Recall selects with prejudice,
weaves tangled webs of lies,
a Gordian knot of half-truths,
untried by focused eyes.
With time the dead are sacred,
blessed by passage of the years,
faults dissipate in retrospect,
like salt in pools of tears.
What trick is this, what clever ploy
our memory banks deceive,
replacing truth filled memories
with damaged picture reels.
The pretty painted pictures,
that skip lightly through the mind,
bear faint and false resemblance,
to the reality behind.