Memories are stairs that don’t go up or down,
more like stumbling blocks.
Ankles grow weak, legs lose muscle,
eyes can no longer see.
Memories infest the deep parts,
rising from the ground
at the worst moments,
attempting to watch the fall.
The moon is a lost memory.
Traffic, lights, manmade consumption
dim the moon into a fragile petal
of opaque obscurity.
Soon man will take out the sun,
stairs will never raise us up,
doors won’t open or close, and walls
will crumble and fall to bits.
Whichever memory is hardest to forget
wins the grand prize, comes out dirty,
muddy, and emaciated on top, but it
is still forgotten.