The past is where it belongs.
Behind us, a distant echo through fog,
A ringing in your ear, or the blur in your peripheral.
The past is the autumn chill
Which stands the hair on your neck to attention
With every subtle breeze through the falling leaves,
Or the cobwebs you step through with wild abandon.

The past is right behind you.
Your shadow.
Mimicking your every step and analyzing your motions.
Time's very own Jack the Ripper, with a modus operandi so pure.
Anxiety is the weapon of choice,
Fear is its watchword.

Striking at your weakest point,
When your mind is finally clear.
A scheduled reminder that somehow,
Somewhere,
You failed.

So keep moving forward lest the Leather Apron strike again.