The past is like dust,
Sitting silently in the dark;
Unseen, unheard, unspoken,
You could touch but not feel.
It could be like stardust,
The glittery bits were happiness,
Strewn into thin air,
Dissipating like golden smoke.
It could be like cold rust,
The coal bits were sadness,
Meant to stay with old thoughts,
And sanded away over the years.
The past is like lust,
You felt alive when basked in it,
Before the heat turned stark cold,
Looking back at the burnt edges.
And the past does not last,
If the mind decides to set it free,
Into worlds it rightfully belongs,
We move on with no leaden weight.
Copyright © 2016 thearcticstar