Scrapbook Of Memories

Time is the purpose of all pretense;
cataloging pictures of joy and infamies;
past history, chronicles all events;
all found in the scrapbook of memories.

Why is it, that we are obsessed with past;
doesn’t today, provide enough worries?
Must all transgessions, forever last;
with evidence preserved for juries?

What do we care of a yesterday, gone;
when today provides our path?
Can’t we simply allow life to go on;
not dwelling in sorrows or wrath?

Must we revisit thru memories, faded,
times and events, we’d like to change;
always wishing, they could be traded;
and, for a substitute past; rearrange.

My scrapbook resides deep in my mind;
a vein in the stream of consciousness;
for some reason; it’s how it’s designed;
reminding me, of the guilt, I possess.

The scrapbook is my confession, in writing;
never shall it be erased;
instrumental in my soul’s deciding;
no longer shall truth be defaced.

My memories have accumulated inside;
it’s freedom from guilt that I seek;
reaching a point; there’s no place to hide;
surrendering my book, for God to keep.

Monty 12/8/21. # 851