Poetica: Inked memory

Does memory vanish,

devoured by beastly time –

leaving inked bare bones?

Archeologists,

our diggings can astound us,

unearthing our past.

Cleaning house opens

a doorway to self-knowledge,

done attentively.

Recently I dug

through the family memoirs

and my paper past.

I found vexing truth.

Often letters scribbled then

contradict me now.

Reading journal jots,

going back, taken aback –

was that really me?

When my tales I tell,

I see that I update them,

function over facts.

Am I a liar?

Do I not own my stories,

to tell as I will?

My inner struggle,

consciousness wrestling conscience.

Can't both be winners?

Facing winter's mien,

naked truth begs for clothing,

warm-vested interest.

Words without purpose

are never really spoken,

be they facts, fancy.

My words construct me

project me into the real

from my inside out.

To tell my story,

what measures can I adopt

that heal, not infect?

Which minutiae

legit to change or omit,

so intention's clear?

How does my brush

choose colors on my palette

to widen your eyes?

What words can I find

to enhance landscapes, portraits,

paint our lives larger?

We are both artists,

whether sculpting with our words,

or just holding hands.

Hardly what they seem,

his-story and her-story,

ache to stand winners.

Tell me your story,

however you best want it,

and I'll tell you mine.

Stories, our towlines,

pull our raft toward tomorrow,

be port bliss or hell.