As life unfolds, and we grow old, one’s mind in time tracks thoughts refined and sorts the piles of files compiled, then frames beguiled of all the smiles, in recants enchants from life’s romance…

Our memories can make us cease, from recanting thoughts of things unpleased, and breathing sighs may cause us wheeze, if squeezed too hard from things displeased.

But fear yea not, ‘cus time aloft on spins of clock have numbered days allotted, and circumstance provides good chance that life won’t cause distraught-ed!

As ticks of tock play tricks a lot from rhythmic spinning hands on clock, and days ‘n weeks, ‘n years my dear can often cause us fears and tears!

Not all shall be good memories, and this is why we let some free, as seeing forest through the trees requires us to let some be…

In frets begets ’bout life’s regrets in time one’s mind can choose forgets, or harbor thoughts from doom and gloom and loose the chance to clean the room, applying sense by pushing broom!

Thus, in go for bust place bet on trust, and come to know thyself in tow, from actions taken or chance forsaken thy truth be known ’bout who’s mistaken.

As sins and friends were just pretends, that offered view for better you, and struggles juggles and more of troubles had shape thy clay in different ways!

Memories can’t set one free, nor erase disgrace as child naive, ‘cus those whose heart had sold their souls, ’twill come to know when growing old that price was paid when blood ran cold…

For some abused, ’twas left few clues ’bout who resides inside of you, as those events that’d made no sense, may have paid the recompense.

Each new day’s dawn shall give a chance to write new songs, but empiric in the lyrics penned, can fail to view what hides within…

Offer up what’s seen, as gleaning clean, and less and less of more obscene, plant seeds for crops, give toys to tots, and live by words, in less absurd…

As memories of sums unpleased in total count shan’t let one free, ‘cus yoke on neck attached in tow, won’t let yea free from all yea knows!

As each good and bad event’s pretense, is all what offers life’s good sense, as sad or mad or glad’s results, provides us armor against more assaults…

In collection of our memories, just what’s inclined to let us free, of worries flurries and truth obscuring, did story scripted in Book of Life, offer chance for, thinking twice?

In steps you’ve taken, had some forsaken, exemplified someone of wise, or be deplore ’bout money whore, whose cup of plenty’s milk and honey, had never runneth over?

Thus dig way down, beyond the frowns, and makeup on the colored clown, reflect yea’s best, clean up thy mess, right some wrongs, and play and hear a different song, before yea’s planted six feet down, in resting place into the ground!

Michael Chaffee

7-25-25