Memory lost without regret.

And I listened to echoes,

as they rang through my head,

like images whispered,

from the long since dead.

And I wondered their meaning,

as I strained to hear,

voices as familiar,

as a lost loves tear.

And I went dreaming,

on a past left to die,

the pallbearers carried me,

as the echoes said goodbye.

And I regret nothing,

from a grave made by me,

for life is a journey,

it is what it will be.

 

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