“Love is so short, forgetting is so long.”
― Pablo Neruda

In realms of mythic, deep-stoned lore,
excavated memories pass us by, once more,
flimsy whispers graze the mind,
from depths of memory, Ah! treasure-find.

Like shadows of rare-forgotten time,
the dead are kept alive in rhyme,
a daily battle is waged within the blood
forensics of the soul, Noah before the flood.

Visceral echoes linger on,
telling stories of the long-ago-long-gone
excavations of our inner selves,
whisper-the-mystery-of-symmetries
scattered on a bloody road to hell.
Who can tell?

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