memories
are dark, disjointed
as a dream.
a thread of thought
weaves through them all
as does the lull
of lavender
faces, places
things we’ve done
each morphed into another.
Where is truth
or, was it ever here?
Perhaps, the longing
made it so
woodland walks
and moonlit talks
count my drum beats flow.
Lies that echo
through the woods.
Pictures in the fog
of long ago
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Dennis Cardiff: Poems and Prose 
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