Lost Year

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For my friend:

Winter’s sting began last spring,
over one year last,
that’s when he passed away,
now all she can pray is; “help me hold fast.”
Time and doubt are all strung out,
in the ceaseless pale dream,
but memories sustain,
and she doesn’t complain;
as she’s carried upon life’s stream.

Meanwhile, the toiling world flashes by:
And men’s souls rise and fail,
like the stream in the pale dream,
on its wintry race, never ceases the pace,
dwell on its lonesome face.


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