“‍Paper Memories,‍” a poem about journals.

Many years ago I remember reviewing my journal and deciding that the half-life of my memory was about 18 months.

I wonder if that memory is accurate.

Paper Memories

Deep in paintings of the mind, galleries unseen,
Each thought of yesteryear is hid beneath its dust-cloth screen;
And when our memory whizzes past, recalling face to name
Its wake disturbs the cloths a bit; perhaps some scene is seen;
And then we speak of what once was, we laugh at past’s quaint ways
Then move along, more pasts to paint, whole galleries in days.

Deep in paintings of the mind, galleries unseen,
Suppose our memory moved more slow, inspecting each fine scene.
What patterns would we notice then? What progress in our art?
What echoes of an aging mind, what tributes of the heart?
Yet even browsing through the halls, our memories still must paint:
A touch-up here, an edit there, the mind knows no restraint.

Upon the pages of a book I write about my days;
It lacks the power of mind art, but as it was it stays.