Under the stars lies a blanket of undeveloped memories
Memories of those lost, those stolen, and those unaccounted for
Like the old film canister under your secretary’s desk, ready and waiting,
They sit lifelessly in the backs of our minds
We pass by them day after day; they are the trees and park benches of our thoughts
Unaware, we march on
The lights within them flicker, fading to gray after time
Nothing we do now can get them back
There is no coffee strong enough to help us recollect, no slumber long enough to stir their contents to the surface
We unknowingly do what we can to forget what we should remember,
So how is it that we can’t purposely forget what we shouldn’t?