The morning mist hangs
shapeless, without detail,
but clearly there,
like the memories
which peel away to swirl
about me like a shroud.
But I don't mind
my life has been good,
by and large,
my memories are warm
and colourful, misty,
comforting around me.
I hear a voice,
in the distance,
very like mine,
swear words and crudity,
unwanted anger.
So I stay in here
where the small light shines
warm and comforting
like a candle
pushing back the dark.
Who was it who said
"I'll be back"?
I don't remember
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