The past: the only thing
that cannot be rewritten
etched into timeline like
tattoos on skin.
Speaking of yesterday in clipped tones
hazed-over pupils
indulging in depressants
to stop the head rush.
We are habitual creatures,
though more than not the habit fades
walks away on legs that
creak with boredom
the sounds, we ignore them
knowing, they too will go away.