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When the clock flashed midnight—at the stroke of it
I dreamt in nostalgia so acute I woke of it.
Like a longing, much described as an ache
The rose colored glasses, see real and see fake.
It’s an elegant house, but with no one inside
Or a person, with whom you no longer confide.
It’s an echo, of, the sound of the gong
A shell of a feeling- the hint of a song.
Nostalgia’s a blessing, but also a curse
It says past was better, and tomorrow brings worse.
Like an empty promise, that does not give
Slipping like water, lost through a sieve
Our future is easy. or hard. we don’t know
Yet not to step forward is a choice not grow
Old memories are sweet, but beware not to cling
Or else tomorrow’s a melody we never can sing
I embrace the belief, held only by some
The Hope, that the best, is yet to come.