The past will not leave with stumbling remembrance of yesterday, a warp in time torments beyond comprehension with reasons of unbearable hope. A hope of non existence where imagination is king. A throne made of thorns is where you may sit to think, ponder, pretend. Pain is the norm with thought processed and bewilderment takes its place. Reasons of good have long been lost, looking back should not be an option but the head keeps turning, rotating, shuffling to a forbidden place. The fight is real, but how does one win against an imaginary foe.
Let It Go, Let It Go.

Joe Callari