Lest We Forget
Memory is a curious, frail, thin thing,
A haunting melody a bird does sing,
Fragile as the skein the spider does spin,
A whisper trapped where dreams begin,
A trace of voices that should never end.
But not even this is written in stone,
The wind turns south and it all is gone,
To recall them, blessings in our winter days,
Lest they were trapped inside a cage.
Buried beneath the mire, so far down inside the deep,
Within the Id, they still call home,
Begging solemnly, “Do not forget.”
The ghost that lingers on the page.
What was once your youth is now your age.
Through tangled strands of time we weave,
Reliving moments we once believed.
In the frost of years unknown,
We plead their echoes still be sown.
Entombed beneath the drowning mire,
Within the Id, they call—expire,
Murmuring soft, “Do not forget.”
A phantom inked on pages set,
What once was dawn is now regret.
All is now lost within our age.