The retrospective beauty of,
a life that has been cast in shoved,
expectations fall to knew,
the garbage can for all of you.
Embracing role in birth of cold,
the script is written and thus so told,
you are the bin that trash does hold.
The collective dumping of what is done,
likens itself to packing sum,
the added wait to every dream,
makes surprised a given theme.
Perhaps what's shocking,
is me still walking,
the fact for fact is learned to track.
Without a doubt the sacrifice,
performance turned much like a vice.
The energy that creates the need,
know accounts will be a lead,
to whomever wished a scheme,
on how to make a life for mean.
As no difference ever comes,
the drum is almost nearly strung,
so tangled up in what is done,
what's forgot is memory tongue.
The basis of the carry forward,
is to remember and not forget,
for in the present the past is met,
the shake of hand involved a reck.
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