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Mists of Days It was the clock, that ticking A clock that really ticks Novel these days Sometimes annoying Sometimes comforting This time, it transported me The second hand became a temporal odometer A metronome of history. I drifted back, back And I drifted away… Snippets of still life arise before me seductively asking, “Remember this?” I do, yes Oh yes Other vestiges of life mock me as I struggle upstream against time It wasn't so long ago But it was another lifetime And well upstream. Life happened and I wasn't paying attention Or was I too attentive to see? Once merely a fascination for study, those overgrown days found life without me Now a verdant meadow, dancing with the most extraordinary delights But only from here I don't recall it from there Upstream Why does it seem so far upstream? Tick, tick, tick, tick,… Never mind that now So much in that meadow unnoticed before But my chance is fading, harder to see Distracted then Distracted again The vision now finding embrace in a gathering fog Embrace that I did not give I search again for what I lost, for treasures just discovered, receding Yet synaptic paths once somnolent are returning so. Through the deepening mists of days, I spy wayward features molding in that orphaned living experiment, an organic/metaphysical ecosystem now seeming like hallowed ground. On that ground and through that mist, I see faces I know (is that a voice?) And I am comforted. |
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