Memories are ghosts of things that don't last.
They start off when you're born. They cut down your past
Drawing-sidewalk by schoolhouse, landscape-by-tree,
There's little left of what I grew up expecting to see,
Of the places and things and the people I knew.
The future I grew up with, well that's gone now, too.
I, alone, travel time unchanged, march in one direction,
ahead,
and play “The Saints Go Marching” for the ghosts in my head.
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