Memories are birds that flit
In and out of our minds, bringing
Pleasant recollection of the life
A thing of beauty, a vase of ceramic
We store it as if a horcrux we can’t
Live without. At times pouncing
On us in the dark alleys we seldom
An artifact that tells us stories . A
Warning that forbids us to act ,
A shield that wroughts us in iron
To face the harsh winters.
A book which tells us many tales
Of different hues. A beacon that shines
Through when caught in the whirlpool
A tree that has rooted deep , a
Mighty ocean that surges into
Our heads, a rush of happiness
A pang of guilt.
A gift we sell to the devil on
Promises of wealth. Can I live
When my memories fade away
Leaving me a speck of dust in
The desert of life , I know not.