For Joseph May's 'Choose a Line 2' Poetry Contest
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With all memories, time comes and goes. Like a giant river, it gathers speed. Toward the great inevitable - it flows. Can we possibly recall our every deed? So many recollections haunt my mind. Some, however, are not remembered, and if my soul had limbs, perhaps I’d find certain memories have been dismembered. Sometimes I’m told stories of things involving me: tales I don't recall - like a poem with no rhythm and no rhyme. My parts in these plots have simple got to be “memories buried in the wavering wash of time.”
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