The other day

I read a portion of

a diary I once kept.


When finished

I set it on a table beside me

and I nearly wept.


There was so much

that I encountered

that isn’t any more.

I felt rekindled grief

as I rehearsed the past

again becoming familiar

with so much forgotten.


Right now I wonder

if it’s best to keep

what makes one weep.


I am no wiser than I was

before unearthing

some ancient ordinary days

in which I played a part.


That diary

may never  be exhumed again.

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