The Still Authors

There are, like days, these passing traces of memory
Memories in memoriam as if the dead were authors still
Still authors in still air, their still tombs still encasing
Cold shells, spent shells in cases of nitre
Crates of cosmoline
And the ever apparent singing of crickets in the gloom
That sets outside my window
And crouches in the memory
Memories in memoriam as if the dead were authors still
Their singing in the gloom under the window to my room
Makes every tiny thought a refuge from the day I forget
Oh but in time so gently draining
But in time its will sustaining
Don't these songs they sing remind you that
The faces that you may forget
The people that you may have met
And epitaphs you have not read
Are all the work of them, the dead
All authors still, as still they lay
As planted seed, as vine's decay
As death gave birth to each bright face
That every day seeks to recall
And each revision to replace
There is, each day, a passing trace
To each doused glim
A life replaced.
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1 Response Sep 15, 2012

i really like this. in a way it reminds me of my convoluted dreams that weave memories of strange people and faces and places "To visit places which were not the scene of my daily torments"
"Prayer of Pan Cogito – Traveller" Zbigniew Herbert