Blink ye and find the wayfare old path
through the wandering kingdom of memories.
Suss a scent, a flavor, or feel way down,
to a dwelling of significant specificities.
Here lies the remains of experience past
or a husk of immutable glory.
Inside reveal the shifting appeal,
trundled up in tails of storey.
Lustering details, glimmering, but frail,
bulge boxes of allegory.
Hints and clues to pasts unhued
Vapors of phantasmagory.
The housekeeper here is silent
She speaks, but not spoken word.
Labels has she for things that we seek
For shelving and holding the boxes we keep,
And through them her old song is heard.
And in her hand a paintbrush,
And a color for each tongue.
In packs go time to seemly confine
Each flittering thought on a rung.
And as for the emotium vapors
each might go in a mold.
Bind them and find them
An' n'er unwind them.
Defined now as solid as gold.
Finally her brush now speaks.
It sweeps its stroke and leaps;
Betwixt each collection
It paints clear connections
Then places them fast in their seats.
For these are the parts that we share.
Can speak of them now to compare
Our long liv'd life
Our triumphs and strife
Can be, if we wish, laid bare.
But what of the left over clutter
Those things no paints do cover.
Cherish them still, we can and we will,
But share them cannot with another.
