Defining
Memory
Some
memories
are the sticky, wet
cancer, swelling
to suffocate everything else;
couched in words that matter,
tweaked into a poem that
slides into fits of discontented,
blue, moody eloquence.
Other memories
are brightly colored nylon,
filled with helium, rising
high and out of reach.
Or spread eagle, freefall dives
into ethereal patches of mist,
pinched into inadequate words;
enslaved by the comma
and the semicolon.
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