I couldn’t fall asleep.
We are the men made of memory.
Our bones ache with regret.
Too heavy to carry,
too many to forget.
Worse is the nostalgia.
See sunshine from days past
just by closing the eyes.
No reason to open them
for uncertain skies.
We love stories more dear
when they’re already told.
They’ve a nook on our shelf,
between two books also old.
Less loved are the new stories
held tentative in our hands.
Unfinished and unwritten,
to foil the best laid plans.
We are mortal – we do pass,
but not because we haven’t
the days to last.
Every year we are laden
with new things that occur.
Leave when can bear no longer
to stay and remember.