The Memory of Things Past

There is a man on the hill in the light of the moon
His name is The Memory of Things Past.
His eyes shine like dancing lights on the surface of the deepest pool
You know him, friend
See his silhouette form.
Love him, dearest
Gaze.
Now the billowing shadow of his pathwork cloak snuffs out the moonlight glow
For a moment all you know is the dark

Memory's is a silent knowing, an inward sigh
A cloud that surrounds, crushes, pulses, clenches; a living fist that grips your heart with the strength of steel and tugs
Silently, persistently, gently
It persuades me but I do not think
It guides me but I am not free
It leads me but I am not led
Rip the curtain aside like a gloating murderer unveils his victim
Shine again comforting, forgiving, bright light, a shadow of the golden

Peace, reprieve, rest, but
Move, friend, move,
He stands on the highest point.
You once knew him;
Memory does not forget
The Man on a hill in the light is moving
Closer, friend

There is a story before your time of a friendship forged
On trust, love, bonds of memory and hope
Of two who would give anything for their love
Which would last forever past, forever future

The face of Memory betrays no emotion; it is a resolute gaze into the depths of the night
His eyes draw from the darkness around, like a child who receives uncountable presents,
Like a black whirlpool that pulls, pulls, and finally destroys
Friend! He moves...
Like a burdened soul the man is still on his hill, seated

Look down, friend, look beyond what you see;
See how far those who flee will fall
It is a cliff.
Memory's silhouette grasps the rubber tires
And pushes.