DREAMS AND GRAVEYARDS The past is somewhat like a graveyard, Whether those we visit there bring happiness or sorrow we can do no more than look, One directional conversations and a paralyzing realization that the end is real and that it has happened is what we are offered, There is a familiarity in the feeling of fingers clawing at our chest, Clawing to fight this distant pain they know they can never reach, The tears we wish could roll back because we know this kind of salt doesn't heal wounds, We keep getting lost at the crossroads of things we wish we hadn't done, the things we wish we had done and the things we wish we had done better, Eventhough we made those crossroads and have walked them many times before, It's a futile routine that comes with a pinch of amnesia so we don't quite remember its futility when we repeat it, But I don't suppose anyone could say they've done different, How could one deny that the past is a drug that has permanent residence in our blood, That we are all addicts of some sort, The regret, nostalgia, memories, ruins...the pain, So why then do we keep coming back? Do we not know we can't breath life into bone? That we are resented by these graves for standing above them? That we disturb their peace as much as they do ours? We don't belong there any more than the past belongs in the present, And so the question forms itself, How many years must we spend on spent years? ©पूर्वार्थ #dream #graveyard
