My past is like a stain that paints each new place, and face.

A mind which seeks release and an essence that continues to cease.

'Tis a burden resting within my body, disallowing any newfound story.

"Dusty dialogues, foggy monologues."

Sentences strewn about and borrowed, without much doubt.

Quotations so seemingly true, I resort to attaching myself to more than a few.

Spirals in which I continue; imprisoned words I need to see through.