Memento

Wayward lies keep us from sleep at night to
explain the truth in the shape of a fog that
can drive us into pools of distant images
always playing backwards rapidly like a
naked memory stacked upon memories to
numb the physical experiences as science, not as
emblems of things much deeper, which
varies on the mystery of intention in all the crevices of
emotions that bounce off people's faces and
reverberate back to shoot us in the chest but
feels like a warm embrace that enraptures every
organ like an incurable disease and forces us to
remember the span between beginning and end to
gravitate towards the pull of forming new
evidence of more sunshine than clouds
together more elevated and molded than we began.