Today Is a Beautiful Day

Bottled nostalgia sells like true tears.

Accumulated memories, photoshopped bits:

Are they what I remembered, or via wit

of man and wishful fears

of the days we’ve forgotten, mind cleared

of bygone worries alongside? “It fits

with what I thought happened,” and it

bothered no one, even if the mirror

said otherwise. Or did it looked so good

because today is beautiful, as sunshine raced

with Spring’s Herald outside the window saying

strange words, moon runes, almost, lifting the mood?

Among my strange references and stranger cases:

Was it simply longing, or the reminder of a witch sighting?

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