Sunday, June 21, 2015

Age

I know you. 
We've met before. 
You're an old friend 
from days almost forgotten. 
Memory is a fickle friend. 
Now fading, now making an appearance. 
Weaving through reality and illusion, 
I see this fleeting thought and think, 
'I know you. We've met before.' 
Is it me, is it you? 
Should I reward my mind for not forgetting 
or punish it for remembering? 
The silhouette of your handsome face, taunting me 
to acknowledge my limitations. 
As I struggle, I hear the enemy laugh 
at my confusion. 
Do I know you? 
Have we met before? 
When all along the winds and the dreams and the earthly symbols of time 
have been ticking to warn us of the impending end of all as we know it
Here comes that soft, fleeting memory
Do I know you?

Have we met before?

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