Monday, October 22, 2007

Where One Lives

I have been through my own past,
With the eyes of who I am now,
With the distance of the years that make it,
Not what it was, anyhow.

It lacks the pain I'm sure must have existed,
It seems the best years anyone could live.
A mottled existence of highlights.
For such a life what would one not give?

Unless the joy I only see is an effect,
Of the joy I can only see now,
And that past only serves as a mirror,
Of how,

Everything is alright,
And tenses only serve to reflect that.
And soon I'll find out if the future's the same,
Reflection of that fact.

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