Steel Sieve

A memory’s a tale we tell ourselves
Which having heard we then accept as truth.
We tend to lose the details on the shelves
On which we store the stories told since youth.
The mansion of my mind has many rooms
Whose walls are decked in detailed tapestries
Of recollection, yet imperfect looms
Shed facets when misshapen heddles seize.
As waters from a deep artesian well
Are filtered as they’re forced through earth to air,
“Impurities” are strained each time we tell
A story, till we’ve lost what once was there.
Who only taps the well to quench his thirst
Would deem the taste of groundwater accursed.


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