What is the memory but a motley quilt,
With patches stitched together,
But some detached from there as if Inappropriate
To the purpose of alleviating in the period
Of grief and sorrow, which are so often
Cause a day to be a hue darker than it is,
The people to be meaner than they are
And events to go not in the way they
Ostensibly  
Are supposed to go;
To leave only warm colors suffused with
Fragrance of a mead, the ripple of a brook,
The rustling of a fallen foliage would be
Perfect; yeah, for sure, but to remember
Darker relict of the days of yore
Sometimes is far more better than
Be in the pinky glasses of a false perception;
To see not only in the black or white
But in the gray and green and red and
Purple
To see the life in its full spectrum of a
Motley quilt to warm on freezing
Days or to emit the tears to facilitate
The soul’s ordeal to thereafter meet
The day with shiny watery eyes and
Unburden as if a weightless heart