Ungone

 

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They are all ungone.

It seemed as if they were memories once,

Now magically undone,

And permanantly present,

Removing completely the yesterday.

 

The present has bled into the past,

As a river flooding its banks,

Removing the binding limits of a journey,

Punctuated by hard and soft soil,

And the steepness of a life well led.

 

Now, it seems, they all stand there waiting,

Waiting to hear from me,

How they have impacted my smallest movement,

Somehow missing me,

As I certainly miss them all.

 

Those people I can no longer talk to each day.

For whatever reason.

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