Time Home

The past becomes a squalid place to live,
palatial though remembrance may be.
Nostalgia’s like a slum. It doesn’t give
shelter – dilapidated memory.
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The walls of wallowing in what’s long gone –
your youth, its lofty hopes, a lost romance –
are windowless, opaque to flagrant dawn.
You still may circumvent your circumstance
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or cultivate it, conscious that it’s brief,
inhabiting instants, quick to disappear,
each momentary mansion’s joy or grief,
or everything between. With windows clear,
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you marvel viewing panoramas passed,
from home, a mobile moment, lightning fast.
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Mario A. Pita
Sonnet originally published in Lyrical Emissary

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2 Responses to Time Home

  1. OthmanMUT says:

    This is so beautiful

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