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b.larset

A Growing Of Forgetting

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Settled in. Watching our
growing of forgetting.
Touching the old. This
emptiness placed here
by my hand. I remain
curious even now .What’s
the wrong that I can write it?
 
Gross echoes of never, sound
in me as I try testing the pleasant
of, "you and then". Inward passions
wishfully direct, experiences
of you back into my mind.
Events Lead. Hope prods forth
promise, then like a wave,
it washes me with you.

As it was, and can’t be again.
I feel it will you away.
Carrying you further from
my memory. Losing your
warmth and the rush for
with and about you.

Like a sprout free and
nourished by us. Our
fading takes root and rises
up; becoming stronger.
Getting fed with the hurried
neediness of friendships and
conditions undercover from
comfort of old lovers.

Our not remembering, looming taller.
It’s leaves and branches lofty
enough to hold our memories.
Soon we will be shaded from
the softly falling light of our
place in time. Where we have
been lost in the midst of
temperance and zeal.
 
Flourishing as a means to heal us,
the remembrances of utterances
from ,” two” who as one sold
their fortunes. For a : once more to share.
And another : then to be. Now.
Absence is their common place and
produces a will for them to find a, “where
they can begin again”. Enduring the
listless and accepting their new found
ended ness.

Tending to the growing of forgetting.
We seek to further our past bringing it
with us to now. Touching the old.
Caressing the new. Leaving a fondness
shadowed with relief from it’s pains.

Gaining courage through understanding,
we go on, growing and nurturing until
lastly, we have not what we feel; but
more what we seem to have lost.
And may not ever know as it was
again.
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