My Memory

My memory is fading,
Sheered wool off a sheep,
Onto another man's shoulders,
Line by line erased from me
and whispered by you,
solemnly swear, I do.

The fletching out my body bright
conceals the anguish piercing
a postmodernist tragicomedy
gazed upon by a fearful audience
unaware of the rain that poured
and the rainbow that appeared.

My memory is fading,
though my face still optimistic,
to conceal the writhing torment
underneath my skin,
communication between synapses
snapped, I do.

The fountain of youth still evades
my aging consciousness,
and my body aches
to return to my thoughts
instead of with scarabs
tickling my numbing memory.