Poetry

The Death of Memory

As the clockwork,
moves to an hour,
Late and drenched,
in moods dour,
I wistfully hope,
 to turn back time,
unwanted memories,
that I wish to rewind,
The manic beeps,
And whispered screams,
The scents and swabs,
Of pungent alcohol,
The morose but rehearsed,
Routine have consumed,
The last few,
memories that remain.

As my last,
 memory then fades,
A lifetime of sorrow,
Swiftly then evades,
Like shattered pieces,
Of a broken glass,
Flung in the sermons,
Of the Sunday Mass,
As the beating,
Heart then ceases,
vacating the expired leases,
To empty homes,
Left in abandon,
Like decrepit weed,
Growing in my garden.

No I do not,
Blame anyone,
As I burn away,
In the blistering sun,
And as my existence,
Slowly but finally tires,
The flash of my last,
mortal memory expires,
Face me not,
My image is shattered,
Under the guise,
Of fallacies that mattered,
Not when laughed,
Upon by fate,
In the end,
My death came too late.

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