Here, beneath summer showers,

Where lilac’s scent and thoughts

Hang heavy, he gathers memories

Of the not so distant past —


Faces, places, voices

He wishes he had long

Ago forgotten.


Yet, they drone on —

Like the beat of a drummer

In a marching band,

Continually tapping the same

Monotonous rhythm with each

Step he takes.


He ponders choices —

Good, bad, indifferent —

They were his to make.


But, these thoughts —

These memories that

Plague him, are what

Affect him most —


For often he feels —

In some strange, twisted

Way — they have chosen him —

Now, his cross to carry.

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