“What is it in us that lives in the past and longs for the future, or lives in the future and longs for the past? And what does it matter when light enters the room where a child sleeps and the waking mother, opening her eyes, wishes more than anything to be unwakened by what she cannot name?”
—Mark Strand, from “No Words Can Describe It”
The Past.
broken hearts don’t heal
broken strings don’t mend
the pain was not only in the past
its phantom still lingers around
reminding us of our weaknesses,
making us weak in the knees
fragile marrow bones
they crack easily
the past has seen it all
watched us fall, tried to mold us in,
black and blues underneath our skins
wounds not visible to strangers eyes
but the past knows where they lie
it comes back raging like a storm
knocks us to the ground out of breath
and then pours acid on our skins
we fear, so we hide behind,
put up our guards and lie
wear a mask till the future
is sure, no hard edges
to scar our skins.
we forget, we start fearing the sun
even the darkness, with its scary side
and even when happiness stands before us, we think it’s just the past
in disguise.
