My memories are old songs,
with a few forgotten words,
long silent pauses.
Trying to sing them creates
unanswered questions:
Who said that?
What?
Where did that happen?
When?
How?
And the worst:
Why?
But the melodies,
foggy, though remembered,
finish with their final cords.
Some abruptly in dissonance.
Some crescendo into fortissimo-Chorus,
based on the original score.
That symphony
is my life,
as I remember me.
Poems by Ken 