of memory

I can tell a million stories
that scurry and slip
to weave and admit.
I can stand in admittance
of a proof of identity
a call to some arms
that are imagined far and wide.
I can build arms for the pedestals
to laugh at the hubris
of those who don't catch the humor
in the clear craftsmanship
built of honor and remembrance
while I slide by,
hoping for a hilarious hook.
A change.
An awareness.
A look.
And I can settle in remorse.
Arms thrown to the wind
of words suddenly silenced
and hopes deemed dimmed
Perhaps return is not possible.
Penelope at her loom
unabashed and slyly supported.
Belief at her temple
pounding as it does.
So, to wait.
To smile.
To be correct.
Despite the odds.
A hurried heroine pulling at threads.
A hubris blanket with harried ends.