The cadence of old stories still rings true.

They lie scarred and tattered in the mind.

Unfinished, unfathomed, unplumbed.


And then you see something,

Hear 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.

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