Stories I have told and told and told again
Were they really real and when and where did they begin?
Did a dream about the timeline alter the tale or make it change
And why each time I tell it once again do I feel this strange
Compulsion to add that one detail that wasn't there before
Or, if it was, to amend the color or the room's decor?

I reach a point in each telling where I need a word or phrase
And grab the air as if it would suddenly amaze
Me with its presence since it really wasn't there before
And then I look into the eyes of the tellee and feel the bore
Which has set root into the fabric of the tale
And perhaps that's why the addition of each new detail

These minutes fly with such dispassion and so fast
I am no longer an unimpeachable witness for my own and only past.

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