Richard Randolph

July 3, 1955--Oregon
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Memories Fade

Memories fade,
like paintings on a wall,
the images still exist
but the luster not at all.

I try to recall an old song,
but the words are now unclear.
The melody I once loved,
I can no longer hear.

And people once dear to me,
I hardly recognize or know.
My own actions seem absurd,
a kind of puppet show.

Who is that young man
so full of himself?
Dear God, don't let it be me,
I think to myself.

Once cherished keepsakes
still hang on the wall,
but what they represent,
I can no longer recall.

Our memories, so lifeless,
become small and untrue.
So what are we left with?
I'll leave that to you.

But life cannot be captured,
or stored on a shelf,
any art claiming otherwise,
should be ashamed of itself.
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