...and someday I will
become a forgotten
memory, archived
in tombstones with
reluctant lilies squinting
in the murmur of the sun,
their desire to kiss
the wind, where ashes
float from the last
remembered hands.
When the pages of
the calendar turn, the
rain announces another
year of my return in the
cracks of the old home
where the child in the
picture refuses to grow.
Another song will bid the
year good bye to the
dead, another repetition
awaits the living.
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