He is nostalgic
for the thing he used to call
his “imagination”
which has devolved
into a game
of pickup sticks
in which the sticks
are splinters of things
he thought long ago
and picking them up
is harder harder and harder
as their sorrow is heavy
as trees felled
by deep earthshaking
and wide airbending
that no longer grow
but lie there in random patterns
where they fell
Dark Matter 
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