Swimming through murk that proclaims
to be memories, is a more recent development
in the constant learning zone of
being alive and aware,
a facsimile of the rest,
where the degrees are off by six percent
and only seem to be increasing each month,
leading to the fear that everything
will be out of alignment before the end.

Is that worse? To be so cut off from polite
personage that you drift between
the tables of stature never really taking
a seat, never really causing a stir, but
never really finding your group?
Alas, transient the wisp floats, no
anchor for grounding and no lighthouse
to guide.

And yet, the attempt is made,
to remember, to bring back into the front
memories that must be buried beneath
the surf, the endless chum of time,
because that alternative, that nothing
solid is ever constructed, that all
events churn on through, washed up
and out with only luck to acquire,
is the far greater terror.