A yellow brick road
did I not
quite dutifully pave..
For future me
to take a-many strolls..
down memory lane?
For, it is true..
whatever we
don’t set in stone
gets lost
to The All-Father
Kronos..
Daddy Time.

And are not
memories
the shiniest
of precious dimes..
for us to ever lose?
Why not just hoard them
on a treasure pile
of all your deepest truths?

Because
the only currency
The Devil barters in
is stained with blood..
The Poet’s ink.
Sweet nectar
of The Elder Gods,
ambrosia
of reminiscence..
is The Poet’s
choice of drink.

The One for which
all night and day
The Poet
cries and bleeds
and sweats.
The taste of body fluids
flowing through
The Spirit
is The Devil’s tonic
of remembrance..
the reason why
he never forgets.

And that is why,
upon a page,
The Poet scribbles
sweet and spicy
rhymes..
and why his
trusty chisel
cuts at marble
veins,
both wicked
and sublime.

To carve an engram
that outlives
this fleeting flesh
of mine.
To still the tear
of transience
to crystalline
eternity..
immortal and
dereferenced
from point of origin
in space and time.