Is This A Sign? I read a lot of poetry,
And write a line or two,
And in between,
There's this and that,
And twilight hours are few.
The dark nights are upon us,
We shelter from the cold,
We write our thoughts,
On paper,
Now, are we growing old?
Is this a sign?
We're marking time,
And trying to remember,
Our days of wine and roses,
And what happened in September?
The memory's, not what it was,
Perhaps it's just selective,
Forget the bad,
Recall the good,
And try to be objective.
And so we write,
Of, long lost love,
And those so long departed,
We keep alive the memories,
And end up, where we started.
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