I am followed, always,

By an old man with a

Youthful face.

 

My mem’ries are all stored in

His unseeing eyes and

Stopped up ears.

 

His fingers stir my brain

Blurring what is him and

What is me.

 

 

His projector films make

Dark days lighter than

Others can.

 

But his tears, like acid,

Scald my soul.  Sometimes I

Wish he’d stay

 

At home.

 

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