Francesca Martin Poetry

In the end all we’ll have are our memories
But they will be skewed and out of order
And I’ll say your shirt was soft and yellow, though it was a blatant gray
And your hair was the color of chardonnay
With the sun winking at your beauty, slipping away
Days will be made dramatic that were truly uneventful and vague
We’ll confuse someone’s death as an imagination of the brain
Ask for that passed person, while forgetting living names
Well, we cannot help what we cannot control
So are fake memories better than none to hold?

Poet: Francesca Martin