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
A DESI MUFFIN 