The Stories

What happens 
to the stories of those
who are no more

Do they vanish into blankness
like an old book
in a dusty library?

In the silence
I hear their groans and laughter
their weeping and joy

Memories that are not mine
murmur like ghostly echoes
on my mind's horizon

The possibilities, the failures
the successes and defeats
cry out for rememberance

But we like senseless beasts
pass through the present
from pleasure to pleasure

The stories live on
untold pulsing hearts
faintly beating their life's song

Outside time's borders
vigilantly sheltered  
by the one who wrote them.

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