Something's lost. Or aged. Or both.
The memories of years gone by are being relived again as if it's death that's waiting for me round the corner. As they say happens, a few minutes before you die - your life passes in front of your eyes.
And I tell myself I ought to know as I studied literature. In life there are all kinds of death.
The Hollow Men. How did I not see it? How could I have missed it?
And so, the pride in who I am falls.
And so, lips that would kiss form prayers to broken stone.
And so, a whimper, so slight, you will never hear it.