This is what happens when your own past-- Twisting and turning with you at some midnight hour- Becomes you, all over again at once, all too fast, Overlapping you, heart and soul, strenuous in power; Precious memories posted in unchartered future; Each note of thought wearily clings, too often But a scene with yourself, demanding an answer, Yet within past content, drifting you to give-in, just to soften The unintelligent trail, past wishes revived in ardor: For, without the pain of the past, can there be future?