The Former

I arrive at the former,

the past self,

the past life,

all which has passed,

looking backward,

even in danger of Medusa’s gaze,

or mistakes estranged,

I tire of dragging through the mud,

same ‘ol,

same ‘ol,

cesspool mired in regret,

weak and petty,

those regrets,

those regrets…

don’t shake me any longer,

morose attitudes,

like those Edgar Allan made,

twilight years,

age where it was purest,

I don’t know like the night,

not any longer,

fear it,

and respect it,

but no longer.


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