The first cup of memory
Fills the throat
With sorrow and expectation
The veins with the fuel of longing
Regret
Anticipation is Time's trollop
But memory is her angel
With the ever-turning sword.
Each present moment
Holds more past-ness;
The past grows more present.
As i look out the window
On the rising heat of the day,
I drink the first cup of memory
And turn toward my desk.
--Mr. Gobley
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