my notes

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papers of old fashioned memories
make a mess of reminiscence
filed away or scattered around
at play when the night dreams sound
granting their gift of serendipity
possessed like a personal secretary
sending old prayers and wishing luck
as you might do to make a buck
especially if the price were right
such are the ways of the acolyte.

then we find these old letters
of youth read like our ancestors
reflecting a life before it faded to grey
and died, our once over and aweigh
diving with nary a ripple like a silent ballet
cold with age and buried deep beneath a tired cliche
perhaps here in Vishnu’s darkened basement aerie
flush with the afterglow of a treasured alpine ray
the inkwell might be filled, I can pick up my quill
take all my notes and remember what we will.

 

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