As much as I would like for it not to be
My mind, it relives an odd history.
Businesses unfinished, irrelevant, futile,
Questions unanswered, ignored, inutile.
Monsters forgotten, with a steady grip, hold on.
Hues of green still bring unsettling alarm.
Art and words that once caused a sweet commotion
Now fill my heart with doubt - and no other emotion.
Empty fields, an uninhabited sky,
Still burn with memories - of those days, those eyes.
Scars of thorns that once punctured my soul,
Trust once tested, left only shreds to condole.
What yesterday was malfeasance, today is wistful yore.
It all seems golden, not as grey as before.
The stairs, the pallet, the quad, the verdure
The past has, somehow, my mind immured.
Detaching from bygones shouldn’t be such a mystery
Disentanglement from who I once was shouldn’t need such artistry
The pain is gone, and lust forlorn, what’s keeping this wicked connection?
How can concord be losing to some retired, unrequited affection?
