Rest, in Peace

When does it stop being fresh in the mind?

Or possible?

When does the mind stop grasping

Nothings out of imagination?

Reassembling a non existent reality

From imprints of it captured here and there —

filed away for attempted permanence

Of the fundamentally transient.

When does it become ok?

When does one let go

that which has already gone?

When does it all

truly rest, in peace?