Memory Lane

Sometimes I write poems. They are O.K.

 

Trying to recollect the steps down memory lane,

wondering if my futile attempts are in vain.

 

One would think,

without ink. 

The past would remain,

to drive one insane.

 

Was it this way or that?

Changing by the tip of a hat.

 

Within a moment of time,

one would look at a line.

Forever lost,

within a rhyme.