The past is bedlam, as limbs on a tree

It twists and snags and holds onto me

A margin of grief has scratched through my wing

And gravity pulls with a much thicker string

These memories are bound as a tight fitting ring

And the light it reflects

Brings a watery sting

The pleasures it holds are the pains unto thee

The past is bedlam

That holds onto me


The unsettled shadow that feeds the forgone

Sheds darker the sorrow in the heed of dawn

More grave is the ache that chops at this strand

For freedom dwells in the clench of my hand

By choice I live with this thorn in my side

The cure I have known

Yet always denied

Slacken thyself; to my fingers I plea

The past is bedlam

That holds onto me


The wind is like glass that whispers its roar

It cuts through the pain that haunts my core

It speaks in nine words

Nine words in its roar

Softly, I repeat

Til I end this war

Love not the past less; But the future more

Love not the past less

But the future more











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