Monday, January 12, 2015


It seems that for years I have constantly had to press the reset button, return to what is really only history, restore the original, unalterable visage of ruin. One falls again and again to the arms of hope, a dream, imagining a victory beyond all reason, forever forgiving the adamant, unchanging harshness of life; believing that we will surely fall this time to an enduring embrace that never, in point of fact, possessed arms. The tattered flag of abject surrender flies of whole cloth once again at the fore of the proud host of love on its march to the center of cemetery ridge; a remembered face, impossibly beautiful, pretends, with tireless deception, to be something, anything other than a ghost.

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