Memories we call them, they come in peace. Bitter sweet symphonies of the time gone by. They lay deep as brush strokes by an impressionist, Circling my attic like a fleet of pigeons, an armada that sails through the trysts of time. They lie clustered in those corridors of remembrance, I pluck each one and smell there languid air, they make me laugh and cry; Some shall not fade though some muffle past by. Clutching onto them I am reminded of times, of love,sadness, fear, mirth and laughter. Some make me relish the time gone by, Some talk to me in the tone I love. Showing glimpses of those I treasure, the one's far, close and those departed souls. They lay there; all inked in the book of time, turn the page and the moment is alive, I try to hold on to them and they fly past by. I ask a few not to bother me again, they say; it was me that gave them space to stay and here I see something happening again .. Call it déjà-vu is what they say ...
What shall I call that fleeting moment,
that feeble instance I do remember,
Is that a figment of my imagination or a feeble mark on past recollections.
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