tiny trinkets of my history repeating

speaking of the ones that leave

and all the relics that they seed in me

I have a collection of the things that

held dear to me in times long since

gone but not forgotten I am wanting

an insurmountable task of disregarding

the eyes that stare at me from little

things that I believe are all that’s left

of all the people that have left me

crept away when I was sleeping

slumbering in ignorance of the

ways they all meant so much more

to me it is a fleeting image

but its on repeat and flickering

these exotic memories of quixotic

tempting things of where the

heartache begins where I can see

her walking hand in hand with

a mirror image of myself the

reverse of all of my faults

and its my fault that they’re all gone

or maybe I defer the blame

and replace agony with shame

repress all this rage

a coward craven


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