Friday, June 18, 2010

Sleeping dogs

In my closet, books-
Dog-eared, moth-eaten,
Faded print, yellowing words,
A touch turns
Brittle pages to dust,
That slips through my fingers.

In the closet of my mind, memories-
Of brittle, moth-eaten times,
Like sand, if only they would slip away-
Though hidden deep down
If dusted off, where would I run,
Its best to let some sleeping dogs lie.

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