Social Memoria

In the wispy-curtained dead of night,
When much is dark and all is quiet,
The Lies creep in like parasites
And hum their little chants.

They aren't unique, my caustic haunts;
They twist their empty, senseless taunts
And striving more is all they want -
To be more than I am.

They crowd my mind and start to shout
"You have a shell and can't break out,
And see the faults you can't surmount!
And also, you've no friends."

I seize upon the final gibe
And role onto my other side;
I grab my phone and start to swipe
Through backlit photographs.

Combatively, the Lies descend
"Why, they don't count you as a friend!"
But memory will soon contend
And have the final say.

So often deemed as "fakery",
This simple scrapbook on a screen
The captions, smiles, and memories -
It's evidence I need.

With final proof of recent trips,
Of gold and silver-hued friendships,
Of laughing groups and comment-quips,
I firmly state my case.

I glower at the wilting Lies,
They scatter on the wind of night;
In gratitude I breathe a sigh -
Now maybe I can sleep.