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The Forgotten Things
All the things.
The dusty things.
The forgotten things
that weep
themselves to sleep
every night they go untouched
after every day they go
neglected, relegated, replaced.
Bought, placed atop a bookcase
and lost among the
sea of older souvenirs.
The forgotten things
yearn for my affection,
crying their silent cry,
being buried in dust, their colors fading
as they fade from my memory.
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This was inspired by the opening line of the poem "Cold Term" by LeRoi Jones.