Borrowed time

A memory is like a pressed flower,
a carefully preserved skeleton
of some fragment of time,
an outline meticulously preserved
at the cost of detail;
a blurred featureless form,
arrested in motion, in time,
appearing altered, by trick of thought
that paints it in hues never endowed on it before,
distorting its shape and proportion.

Memories are deceptive.
Do not dwell on the past.