When I was younger

Inadvertently discovered wrecks of lost endeavors, identified somewhat By pinpoint shimmering within thickening ash and smoke from a trio of stacks at dawn

Inadvertently discovered wrecks of lost endeavors, identified somewhat
By pinpoint shimmering within thickening ash and smoke from
a trio of stacks at dawn
A curious hint when purposefully investigating the disintegration
Of billowing exhausted soot for reclaiming ore particles
Unrecognizable to wise and wide-eyes witnesses
Save one, unrecountable.

Some say it doesn’t matter.
Wanton guilt hidden paper-wedged in an unlit lamp corner crevice
Between the moulding and the plaster.

The grand valley house taken up by a disregarded prediction of runover river waters
Resettled a little further than a foal would trot and bicker for greener grains
Only to be, a decade or so later, waterlogged and drowned by the next year dam.
Unimportant papers floated face up to be bleached along the shoreline stones for scavengers.
Echoes from the deep underneath whisper through the older forest mists when it rains.

Who is to blame, really?
As if anyone is a sole actor, alone
It’s a deep consideration.
A wobbly slapwood cart laden with discarded trinkets and treasures
Once held dear and close as babies and pets
The ramble birds pick through it irreverently and mock away.
Nearby, a nearly sightless elder, resting, recognizes the passing scent
Altering his ancient face to a strict concern
A song comes to mind that he heard a time ago
While falling from a grave misfortune.

Some Scrutinize the fading film remnants
Project them across cheap screens or linens for their oddly curious fellows
The villains and heroes have unknowingly swapped places
Dead so long no soul remains to defend their intentional glances.
What language is that?
Best forget.
These golden heart strings simply become life’s death lances.
Annual flowers smell the sweetest.

Because these things are true
As true as the dim lights in the late night sky
Are set too far away to capture, claim or know
Mixed up gasses, they appear to always recede
In time, fail, will fall from the believed ceiling into shatters.

Newly open, bare to the ferocious sun
Do we realize since the first sand drawn maps
Sought to make sense of the distances between here and there
That South, not North, might have been the better guide to save our lives.

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