It is not the past
That beckons us, is it?
It is not the realm
Of yesterday, that bothers us.
The past is past.
It ended.
What haunts us is the now.
Our present.
The leftover of the ceased.
The past we never parted from.
The Past is Over
The Dried Ink
Under the burden of yesteryears,
Beneath the shadow of the past,
We embark on to re-write,
The tales of the gone,
The chronicles of our fate.
Yet!
And yet, all for a failed attempt!
What has happened,
Cannot be changed.
Nor can be erased.
For the ink has dried,
The brushstrokes have halted,
The story has sequeled.
Not a breath to be redrawn,
Not an inch to be slighted.
Life, nonetheless, went on.
Burying the past,
In the awe of the present,
Life moves on,
While we hang on
To the nostalgic beyond.
Souvenirs
For I’m enveloped in the past,
Yet, surrounded by the present,
O! I dither and fret
Being a conformist
And becoming obsolete
In a world I never aged
And withered in.
For I live in the cemetery of my souvenirs,
Do not bother
To bring me flowers.
Or more souvenirs.
For I rest and float
On the layers of mementoes
Of so many yesterdays
And whilom moments.
For I’m confined by fading memories,
Lost days and uncertain presents,
Do not haze and fade
Only to be bound
Beneath the beyond.
Unabridged Manuscripts 