The Past Is a Graveyard
Do not turn back, the past is grave, Its echoes haunt, its hands enslave.
The road behind is lined with ghosts, Their voices call, their sorrow boasts.
Each step you take, the past will plead, But forward lies the path you need.
The hands of time will twist and pull, Yet looking back will take its toll.
The doors you closed, the bridges burned, Will whisper still, though none return.
The past is cruel, it does not care, It waits to catch you unaware.
It wears the scent of rotting dreams, It hums in corridors unseen.
Its fingers claw through dust and bone, It sings in voices not its own.
The faces lost, the dreams decayed, Will drag you down where shadows fade.
So walk ahead, don’t turn around, For ghosts will pull you to the ground.
Copyright ©
Puroja Bhattacharya
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