You wrote the history
Book and you want me
To Forget what you
Chose not to remember.

You tell me to accept
The things I cannot change
Turn the other cheek
Not cast the first stone
Be meek and await
My inheritence.

You manage the echo
Chamber where you
Subliminally alter all that
Has been said and thus
Try to get me to question
My own thoughts.

Let bygones be bygones
You say. Turn a new page.
Take a leaf out of your book.

Fossil of the fall, dry pressed
On a dusty old shelf where
Life has lost its sell-by date.

Where rigid spines are
Rigor motised from a lack
Of use, where not a single
Worm can be seen or not a
Solitary dog-ear to be found.