POEM: Wayward Memory

I remember the feel of places past
better than I do the sights.
I remember more azure skies
than I do those dark nights.

Of colored lights and germicide
my neurons take their cues;
bringing back a hospital scene,
or long forgotten shoes.

I have a madness of memory
for faults, but not for stars.
But I can’t claim to remember
each time I crashed a car.

I know my memories are lies —
of omission and of fact.
And little can I make the claim
they’re filed neatly in stacks.

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