Minutes turn into hours
when I contemplate,
recalling
vivid memories
swirling out of the past,
what some label
the good old days.
But, what about the nights.

They were never truly
meant to last,
proving-grounds,
stored banks of the good times
& the bad.
Such tough realizations
dissipate into the melancholy.

And, if we could go back,
would we really change a thing?
For, we can never recreate the wheel,
it's already been done
& it's perfect.

In fact,
we're all perfect,
molded from clay,
washed with grit.
******,
pattern recognition
never felt so good.