I don’t often write,
Or should I say type.
But when I do,
Parodies come through.
Because it’s never the same,
Reliving memories is like a game.
Ebbing in… Ebbing out,
Words are now full of doubt,
Did that happen? Did it really?
I thought I would remember so clearly.
What I wanted to convey,
Was once bright as day.
You see that’s why I don’t often write.
Or type. Or fight to put words into light.
Because words unlike real memories – don’t have the same might.