What I remember
There are things that I do not remember.
Being a babe and toddler, of a time so supremely adored.
Because of this they say you cannot help but be their ward.
I do not remember this, but I know.
From door to door I go, not disturbing the space in my mind, the precious flow.
Such things are routine, I do not remember them, but I know. 
As a rule I am not like the others, only I know that I know in the way that I know.
I have no brothers, not kin from which I draw remembrance;
no faces of lovers, different instances of me, holding monopoly, on knowledge of me.
No, because even I don't know me.
I remember my cognition of the night, an expanse of fanciful things. 
Not a chance, but for sure I know, I am that feared night, a dismembered thing.
To remember, and not know: the lethargy of finite existence.
The energy brought down by hallowed rays,to be absorbed by my twilight sky and naked moon.
Each and every one of us; we remember and know, the shared phenomena of decay.
Despite all the knowledge we may gather and remember, there are things to do.
I must remember to remember; there will be no reminder of my bling, 
or a film to bring.
Blowing up as smoke,I will not remember, or know.
Breath to breath, this life blows