Memories flow like sand
This stained glass for me to carry
Why must I bear this brand?
And not set it someplace away?
And watch it bleed in glee
On someone, someplace, not me
Or rather hoard it, in a tempest of greed
Why do I insist on dragging it through me?
This Sisyphean task, this baggage, this rage
Should I wear it like a mark of your honor, your grace?
Torn between what is love, and what is fair
I am the mother of the muses; I am of last of my days
The keeper of your crossings, your interlays
I am the curse of Mnemosyne itself
Tasked with remembering each day
How do I rid, or do I rid, the curse of Mnemosyne itself