As I approach my eighth decade, the number of friends and relatives now deceased is high. Each individual is remembered, of course: that's their immortality.
When my generation and the next are gone, however, those memories will die with us.
REMEMBER ME
A much-loved childhood friend, who died too young,
smiles from a faded photograph today:
along with other snaps, his sits among
dead parents, aunts and uncles, an array
of family pets in amber, monochrome,
all trapped forever, or till I’m deceased,
like insects, in this stout, unwieldy tome.
Should I feel shame that somehow I have ceased
to think of him, to mourn his tragedy,
his early exit, unrehearsed and swift,
he who, back then, meant everything to me?
Has fickle memory cast him adrift
as one does a glass bottle in the sea,
its message, scrawled in hope, remember me?
For verse of a different kind, why not visit: https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564/
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