It’s strange the way
the mind can wash away
so many faces.
Times tides crash through
and the sea devours those
moments of the past.
Names drift off into the sunset glare,
stippling the rippling water
with glittery spray, in the distance
so very far away
before settling there.
Old bones turning to dust,
Sand grains, forming into a mass,
a crust upon the sea, an island
of yesterdays echoed memories.
I’d love to visit that isle
once in a while,
to see the people,
names taken,
by those waves,
to become an island paradise,
under the glowing sun,
in perpetual sunset upon
the windows of my mind.
It's strange the way
the mind
can remember
the irrelevant
A telephone number.
Long out of use,
and if you called it
the family have moved.
You can't quite remember
their faces
but the digits remain
etched into your brain.
It's strange when
all you remember are
feelings, I know this hurt,
and that was what
happiness felt like,
but I can't picture
what caused those
feelings inside.
All I see is a wide-open ocean,
a small feint dot in the distance,
and it seems to be growing all the time.
Thanks for reading
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