A memoir to magicks

All I have are memories
And memories are fickle things to live by


For the life of me, the joy of you
Has already passed me by


And I remember, each day
More hazy than the one before


Some etched forever,
Other less so, but I remember them, for sure


Lifetimes, a many lived
Dreams, a many dreamt


For the best of all things, the first of all things
I have lived, with you


And each thing that comes after
Is now more dull than the one before


Each heartbreak, a lesser version of itself
Each breathe, more shallow than one before


But it’s not you who is any less lovely
Nor your touch any less warm


It’s just, that I have been here too long
Far too many times and far too soon


So it matters little and little
As memories erode

And all that is left, is a feeling soft, soothing yet Inexplicably raw


For it’s desire innate, that is dead
Soft, sweet, eternally wept

It is my torment, to live things old
Each time, less magical than before


A feast, indulgent and reeked
Of meat cooked soft, falling right off the bone


We are time’s middle children
The ones of little grief


Our plagues, not quite as deadly
Our flood, not quite the myth


Ours are not the great empires of the sands of time
Ours are not the Prophets, divine and right


Our purposes are not quite as grand
Our epics not quite that of Gilgamesh


We face no great hordes
No crusades from the west


We have no gods of wisdom and thunder Raining curses and pests


We are just here, in midst of things
And whatever that may bring


And here we stay, till the days grow hot
And night descents, succumbing to an eerie cold


And hearts die out, the end of great hope Festering in dire opulence, will come


To no sendoff or last scream
This soft undeath of you and me

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