To hold the shadow dear, the faded memories
The loves lost
The fights had
The friends, the feelings:
To position them in a place of some importance
Each one a tool
To tempt us forward.
And yet upon a pedestal too oft residing
The pain descending
Like hot wax dripping
Time measured in its and your destruction.
Time measured backwards towards the hurt
As if nothing mattered anymore.
The blind fool lives for what is lost
The wise one dares to tread once more into the minefield
that is the heart.
© TheHairyTeacher 2017
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