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Sometimes the pen stands ready
as though a sentinel guarding
the sacred place where you lay resting
the words mere few and ordinary
when strung, begin singing,
whispering a precious tale
the lore of love, lost and gained
through time beyond centuries,
as though within these live the soul
young and old
precariously balancing
the lore from reality.

Some moments remain
some lost, erased,
as though a mistake upon the tapestry.

Life,
what a mistress of time you be
where guarded you are by fate
the scrawling ink upon the ageing story.

You, me,
all but temporary,
just a passing story.