The Thinking Poet

 

Remembrance
Called from my sleep by a vision or voice,
Or was it the echo of laughter?
I haste now to follow close after.
Only the unsure trace of a path,
And the moon clouding over.
Sometimes a whiff of that sweet, faint scent
Comes wafting towards me;
Remembrance.

So heady yet sadly so volatile, 
No sooner savoured than gone.
Called from my sleep by a vision or voice,
Or was it the echo of laughter?
And always the smile of the crocodile,
Mocking, reptilian, cold,
And the great gaping jaws of oblivion;
For it lurks where remembrance is found.

It has greedily snapped at my memory. 
Dismembered it litters the ground.
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