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Old Flame

Memories float away like wisps of smoke,
Curled out from a chimney stack,
Disappearing into the cold air.
It is possible that you may sight again,
The smoke that escaped from your grasp,
But what use will it be,
When it is no longer needed

What then,
If the smokestack is closed,
Locked tight so that all you love may not fly,
The smoke billows out into the room,
And clouds the world you see.

My hair is thin and the colour of ash,
My body bent now,
No longer as straight as a poker,
Was all that was set alight through my life,
Worth anything,
If the smell of burning cannot,
Be recalled?

My embers grow dim,
My light is weak,
Soon I will be stamped,
Out into the ground,
And will be nothing but dust.

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