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talking to myself

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The flow

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The flow of life runs at times rapidly,

Years speeding by faster than the wind,

Embracing each other tightly like frightened lovers,

Just holding on for fear of the ending of the moment.

Past events sometimes seem like yesterday

The power of their memory like a wound opened, and bleeding,

Of others filled with longing for things past,

The desire for simpler times,

Knowing all the while the illusion of it all.

Or simply thankful that the past horrors are over,

If still haunted by their effects,

Who like slave drivers still whips us with their memory

At times the rapidity of life is a comfort

Knowing that one day rest will come and perhaps light.

Also fear can be present that all can be lost in an instant

As if we never existed at all.

Becoming a vague memory, mist-like without substance,

For those left behind.

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