Memory

All things without reference vanish

to the undiscovered country

from which none have yet returned.

Those whom fortune neither kissed nor cursed,

a language too archaic for our tounges,

the dream that slips from memory as you awaken.

An ambitious hope abandoned

‘ere it became more than but a shadow.

And so too will my soul,

to this place depart.

 

I would still myself remain.

even lacking in an arm or leg or two,

But if I lost my brain,

I’d be no longer.

(though how can one fairly judge

themselves to be not mad?)

 

Ay, if but my consciousness endures,

I need not head nor body.

So I crystalize the image of my soul

in these poetic horcruxes,

hoping they outlast this 

decomposing mortal coil.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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