and jaded memory,
the fragile dream
or broken thought,
I hold to nothing real.
I did not know your truth
in life, as child it could
not be; and cannot know
your truth in death;
too late to be revealed.
Perhaps the child can
never move beyond that
place of birth; where awe
prevents the knowing,
of you as human being.
Beyond the jaded photograph,
and faded memory,
the broken dream
or fragile thought,
I hold to nothing real.
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