The past is dead
It is just the ashes that remain
The ashen heaps like the little hillock of my life
To await the first blow of the wind
To mix with the ether
To never remember,
the bygone, the pain to burn into those ashes
every stumbling thought to crumble like paper
in those crackling flames…
to annihilate every bit that stalls, staggers, stalks
then, I would don anew, the stoic
my new being, that would rise amidst the fire
to spread those wings,
in that fiery spirit, eager to capture the sun!
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