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Nothing to prove, if ever there was
on that trail left in the dust,
of the passing of youth and folly
where things left behind lay in rust;

Old dreams betrayed, long forgotten,
in morbid antiquity laid,
plans for the future diminished,
the piper too long gone unpaid.

Whither those spirits befriended,
embraced long ago on the trail,
whisked into mists of a morning,
where conscience elected to fail.

Gone, gone away, ever moaning,
alone in the darkness of mind,
seeking in vain, hope and solace,
such years as were lost are not kind.

By Metaphor

© 2019 Metaphor (All rights reserved)


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