In the hour of dawn when the moon still glowed,
I opened the rusted memory tap.
Stories dribbled with a sputtering flow
as if woken by hiccups from a nap.
Some were lukewarm and worth reminiscing.
Few should have remained like a distant haze.
Some tasted like a sweet cake with icing.
Some left a bad taste - could not be erased.
I switched off the tap for a few minutes.
But I could still sense the gurgle of tales.
I savoured all and sundry and tidbits.,
and will not let the flow stop nor run stale.
As I soak and sink into this outpour-
my sink overflows yet I ask for more.
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