Memory

Memories of childhood
are picked in the brain
Til nie unrecognisable
perfection do they feign.
They soon become far brighter
than the sadness of the present,
They bear little resemblance
but still are far more pleasant.
Through the days of adulthood,
these memories are candied,
Our minds distort imperfectness
the facts are deeply buried.
But is this really terrible,
to alter the real cause,
for now it's far more sweeter
than whatever really was.