Once, you ran and again you followed what you left.
It’s your routine to look back,
To whistle moments that never happened,
That you consistently wished and hoped may happen,
But they never did and they never could,
Because the time in which they may have happened is gone.
And you never did what you dreamed you wanted to do.
This time, is only good for breathing.
You can’t abscond nothingness,
Every page you turned, every decision you rued, has tapered into a temple.
Take your regrets in a hydraulic embrace,
That clings and lingers onto your body in wounds and in scars,
Which possibly explains the shadows and meadows of your indecisiveness.
Your past explains your present,
And this is your problem—you weaved your past wrongly.
You need to be so much closer to the seasons,
Route your feet onto the highway,
Raise your chest, and wave your hands…
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