You think that you are so strong.
The past has been cast aside.
But then there is that searing, red pain.
It stabs like the cold steel of a tested blade.
The silver cuts deep, but instead of blood gushing,
Like the cheap effects of a bad horror film,
All insecurities are released.
They fly around the festooned mind
Little demons, howling ghosts.
Dickens had the right idea:
Past, Present, and Future.
Each takes a turn at haunting.
Memories of the Then, the Now, and the Yet to Come
Cannot be banished.
Siberia would be suitable, though,
Cold enough to numb even the coal-lit fires
Of the cloisters where the specters dwell.
Yet…they only exist where you allow them.
