Lost Lines
Lines delicately traced, like a sketch by Toulouse-Lautrec;
all colour & movement, sweeping angles tangled into a lie more real than the truth:
who is that person now?
What do they dream about?
That the past is forever lost is the only proof we have that it existed*,
but the City, the City stays standing:
poisonous giant always reneging on its promise to keep us safe.
Just as memories will disappear so too will the city & all those within it & all those yet to come.
Even the light will die in time & nothing will remain of the elegant lines; not yours or mine.
Our strange gift is to know this & then try
to accept it.