it is a long, whistling walk in the corridors of time

those rose-tinted, slow motion memories
you can’t retrieve (there is a sadness
to the past, perhaps, because the you of
fifty years back, or even a day ago,
is more alive than the you doing the dreaming,
dying daily.

this is what I propose, you misty-eyed, fading
dreamer:
get up.
open to the soul of your dying.

hold nothing back.

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Filed under my poetry, poetry

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