Moon Mulling

Burning photographs does not destroy the past.
Our history is etched inside the bone.
The smoking world outside our eyes was never made to last.
The song of time gone by is just a moan.
That black cloud on the mountain will circle for us soon.
The pattern of the storm has been revealed.
For every day we look away, there disappears a moon.
Our eyes are closed. Our fate is likely sealed.

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I'm a writer living in Massachusetts.