A wispy mist doth fill my mind.
Reflections of times past; I find
hard to loose from webs, a’dust
rememberings do mistrust.
Image on the psyche doth cling
of her; sticky string!

Like cobwebs clutter, yet served a purpose
once. Thoughts are slaved to service
somethin’ greater then we, to believe!
Or nothing there beyond the great weave.
And to dream nevermore
For days of future yore.

by Ronald James de Langen

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