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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