the past complex

Creamy-walled rooms bare the marks of each year.
Another year passes;
another year is gone.
An influx of new and old faces smacks me with tears;
once the wound has healed, another mural bleeds into dull palettes.
Another year passes;
another year is gone.
New voices. Old ones fade to oblivion.
Each face shreds like paper into the garbage of darkness.
Another year passes;
another year is gone.

Intertwined with the watery mural of the pane,
mounds of bricks pass by my eyes.
Each one holds a story. Each is different.
It's funny how the bricks seem to be the stronghold of history, of stories when everything comes and goes with the fast life of the clock.
The rooms never hold the same people.
The bricks never hold just one story.
The air is never the same.

But time rushes and rushes and rushes;
time, a rush of autumne that start anew when eyes blink.
And in the end, life comes down to one question:
Will they remember?

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