See the images parading, passing,
falling back into retreat,
their rest still unassured
while restless mind may hover o'er the field,
to feed upon white faces,
pioneers who hunger for the light.
Old friends, old teachers
do not resurrect...their coffins
closed forever, neither does
identity within a mental photograph
corrupt, but dwell upon the ether
I inhale as if it were a live daguerreotype,
persisting in my consciousness.
And there they are, secure,
profound beyond corporeal,
a voice transcending earth,
a portrait brighter than the sky
that lives because it cannot die,
and of its musty sweetness
one could scarcely comprehend
the everlasting hologram,
a shrine though hardly seen,
where love and truth prevail.
If that does not confound a man,
then memory may rightly fade,
its heros wrapped in softness,
packed away beneath the earth,
and never visited again.