Describe a weight you carry that has no name.
As clear as an ink blot,
Like a wave crashing down,
The past weighs mountains,
A screeching, grating sound.
Like a blade o'er the neck,
One jolt, one death,
Constantly eroding,
As God will not forget.
'The past is back to haunt us!'
They scream, and cry, and yell,
A devil on the shoulder,
Of your young and childish self.
No resolution,
No wiping away those fears,
The past becomes the future,
No more silent tears.
slow lark
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 4:02 AM UTC