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Excuse Me

Somewhere in the vicinity
of truth and lies,
I’ve changed my mind
about the past;
about history in general;
about what is fiction and non-fiction.

Time plays games on me


closing doors
and nailing them shut;
frost on window panes
when it’s summer.

An air of deserted learning
follows me like a column of cloud.
I am weary of New Years
bringing false hopes;
making promises they can’t keep;
letters written without love.

Excuse me
if I feel
that waking from
a hundred year dream

is Time’s little joke
on me.


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