Minds mould cannot always bend to the will - Look!

A blur of surreal reality:

it’s vivid, a memory, a means 

but travel through years 

and maybe it’s a dream,

or the worst fear:

(for the youth with infantile stretch marks to hear)

Forgotten.

For the youths with flat ironed flesh and barely dogmarked ears,

what we all fear

 is to forget.

Tell the boy with the newly forming moon shaped mole,

or the little girl with her first pigment, the shape of Italy -

a punishment from the sun,

or the teen queen with her premature wires of grey hair:

some things your mind treasures may disappear,

thieves exist and sometimes they raid your brain.

(Who knew that swag could be a molecule!)

But try telling the old men in the rocking chairs with silver strings threading the polished eggs of their heads,

or the elderly women with skin patterned by webbed veins and star crossed freckles,

the withering poet who looks over her spectacle lenses with eyes that look just as glassy,

the matured artist with clouded eyebrows and skin like crumpled canvas,

try tell them, 

they’ll never listen, 

they’ll tell you a story.

They’ll tell the boy, little girl, teen queen 

who may pack it in the suitcases of their frontal lobes

and wheel it through each new year 

until their hair fades from coloured screen back to black and white,

and their teeth begin hide and seek,

their bones hollow like oak trees,

and fingers tremble like the bodies of the young when they first make love,

and they empty the contents for a new bloated cheeked and crescent smiled child whose fresh lips part with the song of grandma or grandpa