Memories are sweet or sad moments that live with us

Like the gladness the rains give when we sleep at night

Or the painting of da Vinci that lived past his ingenuity

Memories are penned down in our hearts

Throwing flowers to paths we trod once,

Walking down the steps that held our homes

And of places where the nights are groomed for dance

So memories are illusions of what may be

What may have been or shouldn’t have been

The happiness of seeing a baby form into a toddler,

Missing the point where it all began sourly or sweetly

To the time we turn to the casket and so they go away


Color called dirt

There’s no color called dirt but that of the earth

It is the hue that gives life yet it drags on the floor

It gives a humid stench when it cakes up on water

And tastes man’s grief when we lose a loved one