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About the Poem

Memories of the past can be bittersweet, yet still we travel down that road from time to time

Dislodged

at variance I feel so alone
like the oak
upon the hill
in which we molded our appellations
during pubescence
skinned knees
heads full of dreams
pantomime
as if we had
control of time

years abruptly passed
and claimed their price
on our bodies and minds
now and them I still go up
to that old oak
to recapture
yesterdays deliberations
overlaid in gold
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