The Tyranny of a Short Term Memory

Safe suburban sprawl, at the strip malls bosom.
Sedulous calmness of the young wife content behind locked doors, behind manicured arbor, manicured perceptions.
She is peaceful in a pew, dressed down, hair up tightly.
At a beige carpeted altar where a heart finds fair repose, down cartooned nursery walls, halls, in search for a child and being discipled in their faith.
Reversed directions, transversing monotonies. The tyranny of a short memory. Quick turn of the page, a new chapter, might as well be the first chapter, all before it met with a curt mental segue or a knowing better smirk.
A cranky insatiable soul like rain at the doorway, key poised at ignition, the last tenuous thread of an already supposed completed tapestry. But there it is for all to see. Your nobility is stitched in every aspect, framed blue and red.
And you were a Queen of Kampuchea,
How could you turn that page? Leaden, unliftable page. Etched on your soul. Hidden by your amiable myopia. And we lost you. And your quick passage was the exact Pyrrhic essence.