My memory is shoddy at best, I suppose this is to all those people who feel their memories slipping away, like me. Perhaps a little of my PTSD is displayed here as well.
One introspection leading to the next,
Speculation caught in traps of fire
Flying high; birds made of newspaper,
Burning away, ashes and dew.
Retrospection, like so many things,
Lost to the inferno.
Dissolved, Dissipated, Consumed.
Mangled wings are so much trash
Littering the sidewalk
As each one tramples across.