Memories

Are not what they claim to be,

Not always, at least.

When you look to yours

For comfort, and some relief,

Instead what you might receive,

Is a measure of veiled grief.

The sun shining brightly

To light up every dusty corner

Of your room,

Plays tricks with you,

Or perchance with your truant memory

Of a long ago afternoon,

And you come back feeling,

More than a smidge perturbed.

You begin to resent the sunrays,

Contrary to always,

When you’ve welcomed them;

For this time around,

They’ve brought about,

A revelation,

Or the beginning of one,

That you could’ve done without.

Image Credit: Photo by Kelly Ishmael on StockSnap