The Past

Sometimes I wonder what the present is,
I wonder what the sun feels like,
I wonder what the sky looks like,
I wonder what the flowers smell like.

Sometimes I question the existence of the present,
I question the warmth of the sun,
I question the blue of the sky,
I question the aroma of the flowers.

The present is supposed to be warm, and blue, and alive.
But the past is cold, and gray, and dead.

There is no warmth in my heart.
I am stuck in the pain,
Of that which has long since come to past.
This world is dead, I am dead.

The past is the past,
It is not meant to be lived in,
It is something to be remembered,
It is not home, it is not a friend.

Our friends are in the present,
By our sides, there for us.
Not holding us back,
Not lifting us up.

The past is a shadow,
A shadow of darkness,
A shadow of fear,
A shadow of death.

If we do not live in the present,
We become empty,
We become sad,
We become lonely.

So long as I live in the Shadows of the Past,
I will for ever be a husk,

Never to feel the warmth of the sun,

Nor to see the blue of the sky,

Not to smell the aroma of the flowers,

So long as I am my past I will never be alive.



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