The past rises like a mist and,
listen, I am sorry to say that
you will regret most of this. The snaking arms
of water smashed upon the rocks continue to ascend
and who you were flees under your gaze.
Like a rabbit, it shudders here and there
forever hounded by your strigine glare.
From its flanks, flashing white in the iced over snow
rise the mists from which you grow.
The past unfurls like a dawn and,
listen, I am sorry to say that
you will grow distant from most of this. The snaking arms
of light perforating the clouds continue to ascend
and who you were soars above your gaze.
Like a robin, it flutters here and there
forever escaping your sanguine glare.
From its wings, flashing red in the branches of a winter abused tree
rise the mists which set you free.
Alas, the past coalesces like a face and,
listen, I am sorry to say that
you will not recognize it. The snaking arms
of decisions writ upon the skin continue to twist
and who you were collapses before your gaze.
Like a memory, it stutters here and there
forever morphing under your desperate glare.
From its vapors, never-captured amidst the crackling chill
rise the mists which haunt you still.