Faraway voices carry
In the stillness of the night,
Across the moon splashed
Mirror of the silent lake,
Softly echoed from the pines
That rim the shore,
They lose direction
And distinction.
Those are my memories,
If memories they can be called,
Too vague and wispy
To discern in the vapor,
Diaphanous and indistinct,
Yet clinging and cloying.
They will not let me go,
Nor will they emerge.
They won’t come into focus,
Yet they will not disappear.

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