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How quickly the time has past, from this moment to that moment then to the last.
My hopes and dreams lost, perhaps or so it seems, like an actor in a tragedy cast.
Or could these be chapters instead in book about remorse, regret and dread, one that is only written within my head, one that only I have read.
Whatever the case may be, each sentence speaks about only me, and how I will continue to fight to be free, from a past that limits, a narrow view, one that only I can see.
How I got here I suppose matters not, I just hope to never repeat what history has taught. Because to think this has all been for naught is to think on a level that should be forgot.
But will forgetting ease the pain, like an umbrella shielding rain, I suppose in the end it is all quite the same, with no one else around to bear the blame.
Like the thorns that protect the rose I speak in a metrical prose, my words the thorns, my mind the rose.
I speak in a metrical prose.
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