Pocketful of Memories

Time seems an insidious beast, deceptive by nature, appears to promise so much by giving least. So, I got old, almost as if in an instant flash of lightening, one day I looked away, then looked back, so fast it was frightening. The future had arrived. Life is a gift that keeps on giving, but as time moves on you know as many dead as you do living. Well, maybe more. Funny how it works, how it's done, but I'm able to keep perfect account of each and every one. I see them so clearly. I have seen so much, I have known so much, some acute sixth or seventh sense helps me keep in touch with the scythe-like days of the present, the slow waltz of the past. Though my movements may be frosty, in my head the thoughts collage so fast. I just sit and let them spin. People I knew, cared desperately about, so many have died, yet they live on in part for me in every silent tear cried. For the feelings never dissipate, remaining fresh and sharp like melodies plucked on the silver strings of a priceless golden harp. They play so bittersweet. I know of generations now around me, see the best of me reborn in them; their humane love surrounds me. I can live forever for they embody all the dreams I had, and that is why I sit content, at peace and never sad. It makes my days complete. I have so much more left than the naked eye can see, got a widescreen vista to scan for timeless, endless company. I have this pocketful of memories I dutifully keep, and, let me tell you people, these pockets are so deep. They will never end.