Stems of memory
sprout from the roots of our heads,
nourished by cleansing rituals and events.
As we mature, so do they—
a young, shaggy tuft flourishes into thick threads,
looping at the ends like grapevine curls.

Some strands grow weak and brittle,
corroded by storms of stress,
waves of sweat,
droughts of heat,
and floods of chemicals.

Eventually, they loosen—
too exposed, too old to thrive alone—
and slip down the drain in scribbles of ink,
pulling along unfinished stories and thoughts,
leaving gaps, holes,
blank spaces in memory.

In time’s wrath,
what once bloomed and burgeoned
wilts and withers
into dry, forgotten clumps—
until one day,
no roots, no memories—
only silence.