Each memory has turned to words,
fixed its form upon the page.
How might I disagree with what
is written, all in twelve-point truth?
Too late to change a single phrase,
re-remember all that was;
I can only read again,
choosing to believe it so.
These are the lines I wrote to play
my role, the poignant platitudes
attached to every mist of you.
Each word has turned to memory.
Stephen Brooke ©2017