When I was born, in those days, I was with the creator — [we can call ‘him’ “God”] —

Before encounters turned to dreams, waned, then faded to memories

Purple light became lavender recollections became imagined doubt

And it was gone for the remainder; no rote could ever bring it back

What we call ‘life’ ensued.  I did what we call ‘my best’.

 

In the duration of life, there is no true memory.

Memory is unreliable.

Selfish perspective gives assumed color.

We are all deluded by luster.

Memory taint.

 

Now I imagine that it’s coming back.

I drop everything and empty out all that is and turn to dream encounters.

When I have come full circle, it will become real.

I will be with.  And, it will be somehow known, mystery upon mystery, it all along was.