History, as seen through the misty eyes of a cynic

Years erode truth.
Cloudy details get lost in fogs of bacchanalia,
flushed down fetid traverses, diluting.

Yesterday we made love.
The earth rose to greet once chaste flesh,
pulling, joining, connecting.

My detailed transcription falters.
Fog distorts the magic,
moves it to lost realms of mystical

where nothing is the way it seems.

Books dance around the fantasy.
The akashic is probably that way,
just bold exclamation points, mislaid adjectives.

Life perpetually teases.
Lost in goals, endings, purpose eludes,
cavorts with amnesia,

memory’s shroud fading the edges.

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byquietpoet© 4 comments/ 1709 views/ 0 favorites

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