if truth mattered then poetry should not exist

the truth 
does not matter 

in poetry. 

like,

when 
you wander 
along a memory,

of 
let's say
a beach,

the water, the sky, 
the wind 
are conjured. 

sand is assumed,
stones also.

waves and
crashes soundtrack
in the
background.

then it gets muddy.

was there a gull
keening 
nearby?

sun?
no sun?

did I
go there to 
swim
or sit?

one day,
someday 
when I need 

to depend on
my pages

to assuage the 
forgetting

I am not sure 
my own words 
will be helpful.

likely

they will conspire 
to convince me,

to confuse me,

to tease me.

to remind me
that they are temporal,
secular,

and that 
they are only
in service to my
memories,

not me.