its all there, writ on vellum

engrossed by time and fate

scrolled as wayward history

marks each and every date

 

familiar names and their sins

revenants of thirsts unslaked

wild love that soon withered

or cakes that never got baked

 

scars and might have beens

guilts and nameless shame

glories and fleeting trophies

won from life's hectic game

 

of late, things have altered

my records no longer clear

dates and times uncertain

in the dank vault lurks fear

 

blank manuscripts do mock

that memory once so clean

whence did the details flee?

what does this void mean?

 

nothing registers, instead

my mind stores confusion

an archive oddly vacant, or

was it naught but illusion?