Memories are fickle things, blinking in and out,
Sometimes there, sometimes not.
But there's one thing cemented in my brain
That there are perversions of memory.
Deep within the recesses of the ocean of my mind, I cast out a net,
searching for the memory, dredging it up from the depths,
I seek help, my fellow crewmates, who sometimes know this place better than I
and what I find is that they are Marionettists, making the old memories dance,
telling me stories around a fire, trading the gone for fake.
Memories leave, and we should let the dead die.
But these mariners on the ocean of memories cast out their nets,
Catching nothing, making puppets instead, calling them fish.
Am I the only true fisher in these poisoned waters, filled with the promise of memories
of shards of experience?
Am I able to tell truth from falsehood,
Puppets from fish?