Their hand lose
grip of the
ledge.
They fall down
to a past that
already was.
The die was cast,
sealing their fate
with small flashes.
Small flashes of
what?
Flashes of
memory.
They fall.
They fall.
They fall.
Smelling rain
drizzle.
Fresh petrichor.
They who are still
falling, breathe in
air.
The smell of past
lingers,
shaking up emotions
from deep within.
It creates a sudden
chill, going numb
once they hit the
bottom.
Clinging to past
brings nothing.
Dreaming of past
brings loops and
hoops.
The never-ending
cycle of what was
and what never
will be.
The bottom hast
left them empty.
All bottled up,
twisted open!
Thou shall be
recalled only in
past memories.
A mere remnant
of what lived.
Now, thou lives
within the past.
Leaving behind
life and having
only memories
to live in.
Memories of
few.
Date: 03/07/22
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