Split from the Root

The past floats by and then out through the window,
And my memories appear like grey bare phantoms,
They seem to live on yet fleet like hairs split from the root,
Whatever meaning they have are obliged by invention,
Those faint figures wander without sound or real sight,
Brought to life as kindled images which lights the room,
Ever so fragile as to depart without even leaving a note.

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