In Time of Nostalgia

They are just empty thoughts without a name
that run down like the raindrops on a glass
till drops are streams and streams a swirling sheet
that does not cleanse but turns the clear opaque.

They are old smells of must and cedarwood
that call to mind a child’s most treasured things,
now lost and rotting in some reclaimed pit;
they rise like fumes to stupefy the heart.

Pale shadows of my former selves, they come
to laugh at me with words I can’t make out.
Too weak to walk the broken avenues
where they carouse, I watch them listlessly.

They stifle me like weightless plumes of sorrow.
How have my empty thoughts become so heavy?

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