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Sunday, January 27, 2008

Sonnet XXVII

The faded mirror, stamped with alien thoughts,
Reflects back, mute, suggestive of the past.
Nostalgic visions, clouding what should be
Confuse themselves, and mingle randomly.

On viewing mirrored worlds so faraway
What should we think of disillusioned dreams?
Those burning images, imprinted there
In fiery glass, that dance to murky airs?

Are memories so dangerous to us?
Can we not reminisce of happier days?
And yet, what causes more of our disdain?
Past bliss we cannot have, or present pain?

My pride of old is fleeting very fast…
I’m just a blurry imprint of the past.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!