sometimes
in the late sleeping-hours
I can hear them
old memories
washing ashore
insomniacs
frolicking about
in the shadows of the room
like young children
staring into the future
wondering why I’ve lingered
existent in the moment
procrastinating
at poeticizing them
they wonder as wanderers do
when will they come to rest
and dream in the minds
of others who will
vicariously impersonate
a life to be relived…