With a lashing to the back of my mind,
Gray, morbid thoughts I had long left for dead
Race up with rage to the top of my head,
Filling with words that I carefully grind,
Until meaning itself starts to unwind;
Drowning my life in a cesspool of dread,
My dark past dares my blind eyes, Look ahead!
But then when I turn it strikes from behind.
Thus the present ties us to selves long gone,
Buried in our yard inside shallow graves,
That every night we secretly visit.
Though today may implore to us, Move on!
To the past we remain little but slaves,
Toiling away in pain most exquisite.
Copyright © Henrique Oliveira | Year Posted 2017
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