The burden of forgetfulness on memory
is like saddling the lightness of one's own crumbling.
As unworried & clueless as the residuum of a loss,
The smoke of pain departs from the ashen ailings
And as the worried, unassuming autumn leaf,
Rests on this heap, softly burning, silently fanning,
Nay an edge of difference, nor one of a concurrence,
Reliving the death unawares, like a perpetual flickering
Mirror unto mirror, the continuum of memorials,
A drudge for the deprivation, a salvage so confounding,
That these eyes of longing, in search of blank visions,
May stumble upon blind light, darkness, soul of all findings.
Allaying this ashen heap & smouldering autumn leaves,
Of a heart that doesn't waive, the eyes loyally dreaming,
The unmapped haphazard patch of this cosmic rhapsody,
Pathfinder to lost wayfarers, journey the only homecoming,
The veil of a selfsame projection, night-sky an empty craving.
Dead love, a beautiful loss, the beautiful death of a lovely loss.
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