Past, that feels like a ‘deep resentment’
like a wound still bleeding,
though time has passed long.
Knowing that nix can be undone,
yet I try hard not to believe in it.
Delusion on the edge of pretense,
that the heart creates:
that somehow, someday, a miracle will occur.
Like a wrinkle in time.
Sudden but subtle.
And perhaps for once, a soul be at ease;
From the tides to the waves
of the mighty sea of agony.
To the turbulence of memories.
Alas, will cease to exist.
Alas, will cease to exist.
YOU ARE READING
Past
PoesíaAbout a broken soul, once so vivid, able to exist through the pretence she has created inside her head as realizes her existence (reality) is unjust and so far it has kept her sane somehow.
