The words that we weave,
framing into a net,
trying to pin down,
the bird of memory.
She can't be tied down,
she has grown wings,
she will fly away.
Words,
our only tools,
the blunt hammer
with which we try
to carve out images
of that which has already flown away,
but with no chisel at hand.
Only empty space
and reams of surreal celluloid
in the head.
And an aching heart.
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