Transience

The mind is to memory but a host
And the skull a vaulting ballroom of thought
Wherein hauntings by its cerebral ghost
Attempt a verbose waltz or brief foxtrot.
But a nebbish shell is doomed to plummet.
Even if the dome is skillfully braced
There's only so much we might get from it
Before passing years see it's face debased,
Yanked back into the dirt from whence it sprung.
Yet dancing shades of thought may leave a trace,
Just as clear as when church bells have rung,
Lacking only that once handsome face.
But I trow that handsomeness transferred
From debased face to ageless text...preferred!