One may never go back to what never was.
For what never was, is but reminiscing, with regret.
Regret for what one let slip by, gone forever, and yet,
we hang on to those illusions, because ?,
into the moment, afraid to immerse.
Only in dream, in rhyme, in verse.
Twenty four years, words came, they laid
upon pieces of paper, the memories staid
upon mat, three and a half by five
images of what once was alive.
What was, what wasn’t, they all, are stored
within the deep recesses of memories hoard.
They come floating back to us on airwaves
They come flooding back to us from black vinyl.
They come floating back to us from magnetic tape.
They come flooding back to us from CDs
They come floating back to us from upon a stage.
B. J. “A” 2
October 11th 2013