"To Err is Humane; to Forgive, Divine."
from An Essay on Criticism (1711) by Alexander Pope
vision imprints for only so long, then
exercises in memory become
rote, as the faculty that will beget
yesterday as present as tomorrow
though this appears impossible, as when
hinges allow double action soon hum
in saloons representing the Wild West
nothing betrays memory like sorrow
given trauma, the harm done, seeks to shape
yesterday as memories constructed
on emotions, heightened, squashed like a grape
until the juice ferments, deconstructed
resembling wine drunk at dinner, at best
empty as experience overwhelmed
ancient and forgotten, emotions lost
decisively to wisdom as a choice
yesterday, fear, today, the ship now helmed
on to victory by victims of chance
undergoing change never at the cost
when a ship sinks from neglect, but a voice
in the wilderness, in the desert, hot
like a casserole in the oven, dance
like cheddar cheese bubbling in an oven
somber sober reflection of the past
obviously cannot construct Big Ben
objectively as more real than spells cast
noticeably without hat, wand, or pot
forge a union with a witch to unhitch
objective reality from its cart
remember, space unfolds in time, fabric
given as thrown, with the body to start
enters life as kinetic, not static
tributes to novelty thrown in a ditch
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