Poetry

Past (#1099)

My past reaches for me with bloody fingertips,
Its ruthlessness is as dark as a corpse’s ice-cold lips,
It reaches for me to thrust me down into hell,
When I run, it finds me using some evil spell,
From the past or jealous present, release me!
Its darkness blinds my future – I want to see!
From its clutches I was free, or so I thought,
Can I not be freed from this juggernaut?

Any Thoughts?

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