As the eighth year drifts in,
The seven gone by, sighs.
Melancholy drips from the eyes,
In faces turned to ghosts.
Held steadfast in the mind,
By memories of long abandoned dreams.
Empty nests, forgotten lays, faded tunes
And mockingbirds gone away.
Lingering doubts, drifitng nostalgia,
Uncertain amnesia,
Can memories lie?
Or do the threads of an old life,
Knit patterns all too familiar,
And color the days
With used dye?

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