Stories we thought we were

Are we not only
memories
Of our own thoughts?
Of our own stories
told over and over
Again and again.

They seem like
rubies
Glittering in
The evening
Sun.
Yet, strands of
Ash
May be found,
A bitter taste lingering,
In the absence of peace.

Once we told
ourselves
Those old stories
To forget the
Now,
But not to be forgotten
We try to remember nonetheless.

So we wait in vain
To be saved
And rescued
When all we needed to
Do was love.