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bones Feb 2016
Hoards of leaves hurry to gather
at one worn headstone after another
like a funeral party uncertain whether
these are the dead who they grieve;

Time and wind tug at the memory
left in this absent minded cemetery
visited only by them and I
and those lying under the trees

with stories that no-one can read.
She had a beautiful smile,
hiding many stories beneath.
They never really cared.
She never really thought about you.
We never really say what we mean.
He never really loved her.
He never really wanted your pitty that year.
She never really tried.
He never really fit in.
They never really wanted to be your friends.
She never really got over him.
We never really think about others first.
He never really forgave her.
She never really wanted forgiveness.
They were never really good people.
He never really "didnt mind".
We never really open up.
She never really said that one thing you wanted to know that one time.
He never really found himself.
They never really got to say goodbye
We never really want to say what's wrong.
We never really want to fix what's wrong.
We never really want to let go.
We never really let go.
We never really cared enough to see the other stories.
Never really thought, about all the little white lied "never reallys".
Gideon Aug 2015
There are stories in the mirror
I read them everyday
Each day a new story
Different from yesterday's

Each day I read something new
But some stories turn out blue
Each mirror tells a story
To a stranger or friend
The stories they tell
Are different but never end

Each mirror tells a story
When it's in the light
But grows quiet and cold
If the moon is in sight

There are stories in the mirror
I hear them all the time
Just look in the closet
They are waiting to be told
there is always a something new about us each day and you'll find out if you look in the mirror everyday
Did you know that
if you pour fat on a stone
*** will eat it and
chip his teeth
becoming, ...angry?

Did you know that?

Is that, ...literal?
in meaning...
did *** once bite a man's flesh
consuming his shoulder;
like a pork shoulder?

Did *** do that?

Maybe *** just shouldered,
...the burden of...
silly men and teacher's tales?
Maybe he didn't chip his teeth at all?
Perhaps he swallowed something ridiculous?

I don't know,
Believe what you like...

From space the Peloponnese,
appear like a chewed-up shoulder.

Don't they?
There’s nothing like a zesty story
    to tell us who we are or were.
It could be spun in a fabled myth
    of gods with mortal progeny
or a saga of proud and shining empires
    rubbled back to primal dust.

It might be painted in a cave in France
    or etched on a Pharaoh’s crypt
or finely quilled on parchment scrolls
    or even set in rows of mobile type.
Human stories spinning across the eras
    that tell us who we are or were.

Latter day oracles pull on laboratory robes
     and prophesy of molecules and DNA
writing new chapters with every rising sun
     Of how the universal pendulum swings
but will someone please reveal the trail
     from what is to what ought to be
and free us from Pandora’ curse?

Robert Charles Howard - 2018
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