Memories

These memories come like raindrops in my mind. I stare up at them through the glass ceiling of time. Each one containing a moment in life that I've lived. The wind of the future; the wind that blows my memories around in its stormy gales. What will become of these warm memories? Will they be lost to the tempest? Or be a puddle in my mind that i may see my reflection in a time of serenity? A puddle of warm memories. Pensive am i, when reminiscing on the past. For the bad memories are of ink. And they stain the glass ceiling and blot out the vision of the good and warm melodies. But alas a correlation of memories occurs. A pattern of precipitated memory. That one warm memory becomes bitter and sorrowful. And the pure, crystal clear drop of rain turns to an inky and murky black. But in this glass house of my life and its moments of permanent time, it grows dark when the memories of ink paint my life's canvas...black. But even in this stained glass there is beauty, in having lived it and been there as history is made.