A minds forgotten the paths once trodden,
the familiar feel of the foliage beneath,
the slight centrifugal force of horizon's allure.
It’s forgotten how words used to sluice forth unfettered,
unfiltered
in a deluge of misunderstood experience.
If only time were a merciful master, one not so stringent
with its harvest,
for what was will never again be, but a reverie
half-devoured in hour of most ardent
need.
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