Returning
One
may never go back to what never was.
For what
never was, is but reminiscing, with regret.
Regret
for what one let slip by, gone forever, and yet,
we hang
on to those illusions, because ?,
into
the moment, afraid to immerse.
Only in
dream, in rhyme, in verse.
Twenty
four years, words came, they laid
upon pieces
of paper, the memories staid,
upon mat,
three and a half by five
images
of what once was alive.
What was,
what wasn’t, they all, are stored
within
the deep recesses of memories hoard.
They
come floating back to us on airwaves
They
come flooding back to us from black vinyl.
They
come floating back to us from magnetic tape.
They
come flooding back to us from CDs
They
come floating back to us from upon a stage.
October
11th 2013
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