The cadence of old stories still rings true.
They lie scarred and tattered in the mind.
Unfinished, unfathomed, unplumbed.
And then you see something,
And a hazy structure of accretions arise again.
Elements re-emerge and re-arrange themselves.
Suddenly, an old story comes alive again.
And strangely, blessedly;
Till I write them out,
Till I notate ‘The End’:
The susurrus of the unsaid,
Will whisper on and on.