This is the most frustrating part-- when the writing falls short
When the hues on the tile make a mirage so twisting I forget my name, this is only art
And still, because the stories mix and slide, it becomes a melting pot, I cannot even sort my memories from the person next to me
So when the writing on the wall becomes charcoal and doesn't match the socks I wear, I can only assume that times are changing
That this room I sit in, on this park bench wherever my best memory is (I cannot remember) I know this for certain
That I need a new pair of socks.
