Story\'s memories

Picking up the pieces,
left from long ago,
how can we remember,
if we didn't even know...?

In strangest tongues we find it,
words of song and rhyme,
handed through our story,
passed by hands of time.

Remember that we tried hard
to keep it all the same,
as we all got further,
and the story slightly changed.

Nothing of a question
picks up the puzzle right,
answers lay in waiting,
hiding in the night..

Seeing it is comfort,
a lesson quickly learned,
a place within our memory,
within the story burns.

I've never been a madman,
but call me what you will,
my story is a memory
and pieces have been spilled.

Picking up the pride now,
and all that fell below,
one day we will get it right,
and it only goes to show

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