by [REDACTED]
There is a time and place
For everything
There is a season
And that season is the eternal now
Shapes morph
And pictures fade
Shattering the frames that used to hold them
And each memory slips
Just a little
Each time you recall
Until all that's left is the
Faded picture and broken frame
Was it me?
Was it I?
Was it we?
Winners write histories
But there are no winners here
Only us and the fragments of our lives
More important than any history
This story of us
And our relics.
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