How they tremble in the wings of memory’s stage
Those nervous, fleeting images of yester age.
Afraid to make their entrance lest they reveal
Their insubstantial form and fading zeal.
Bad actors, these, they change with every show
Their shape, their voice, their lines – and yet I know
They will survive a thousand curtain calls.
The need for reminiscence never palls,
For life is not today, nor yet tomorrow,
But moments past of joy or grief or sorrow.
And though time fades each image by and by,
I know this show will run until I die.
Copyright © Hilary Aziz | Year Posted 2016