OctPoWriMo 14

How many stories will we remember 
when there is finally no one to tell them
it may seem like you hear them forever
but they have always happened in the past
the future is persistently untold
and hair falls out before it gets too old
the distant sound outside just keeps ringing
at this late hour what could they be bringing
to bear upon the earth in solid air
the ground gives way to what was never there
memory is imperfect so it lasts
without beginnings there can be no end
who is there to whisper and to listen
what is lost and found is only missing