there is much to be said
for awaiting in our own
death a return to the hidden
past
for how the fine dust
of remembrance
coats the innumerable images
of our decades
preventing us from making out
the fine brushwork and exquisite
filigree embellishing the souls
of the departed
and those we hold
captive in our memories
imprisoning them in our dreams
in vain we attempt
to recapture the unsuspecting
reminiscence hidden
beyond the realm
the reach of intellect
tapestries spread on the forest
floor cushioned by centuries
of leaves paper-thin layers
of sun and shade
buoying us as we wait
quietly yearning
for that mystical creature
whose appearance we hope
will endow us
with the objects of our desire
only chance determines
whether we discover
and tame the beast before
we ourselves must die
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
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