The past isn’t what it used to be.
Comrades-in-arms walking along—
A half-truth: I walked, they did not.
The future will be what it won’t be.
In ashes or dementia, the best bets.
Strife and penury, there’s momentum there.
Now, the present isn’t what it is, is it?
The blank space in the triptych—
Without a shadow, without a murmur.
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