An echo of a half-forgotten past
Screams out across the desert of my mind.
One cannot help but hope such things don't last,
But in this case that hope is just unkind.
For pasts consigned into the endless deep
Of dreams, part-memories, and vague distraction
Cannot go gentle into that long sleep
But are by nature forced into some action.
What would a past be now if it should slip
Willingly into that great abyss?
No, it must struggle hard against that trip,
Reminding us by force of what we miss
Ever forgetting, ever moving on
Only really feeling once it's gone.
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