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When thought-trail ribbons rise and float
from shadowed groves where memories hide,
we sometimes feel if we tugged hard
our yesterdays could be untied.
A scene, a laugh, a faded song. . .
their soft-dip sway turns back the clock.
Pale faces beckon, bathed by mist;
in thin-clad echoes, whispers walk.
An almost painful yearning seethes;
if only we could focus, strain
our senses, stretch our minds enough,
we'd bring those faces back again.
Though science claims our moments leap
across synapses, cell by cell,
we've touched the deepness, found no end;
the portal guards its secret well.
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