Try shaking hands with the unconquerable.
Reluctantly giving in, knowing he will always defeat.
He strkes viciously over and over again,
having to fearfully surrender every time we meet.

Oh! How he boasts with excessive, taunting laughter,
Knowing he has the authority and control over another life.
Strikes one. Strikes two. Striking again,
with a poised, blood thirsty knife.

He stabs selfishly, not accusingly.
Having a cruel way of twisting your fate.
He enjoys the excrutiating pain of others,
watching them squirm as he mocks their screaming facial traits.

He is the past, in which we willingly, deceive ourselves to ignore.
Oh! How he stores the unforgetful, yet he robs the great.
Trying to interfere with our future, he intrudes,
screwing with our irrevocable fate.

I am his victim.

Oh, how cruel is the haunting of the past?
The past holds tightly onto the present,
almost as if it were grasping for one last breath of air right before he unwillingly dies.
Oh how tempting is the truthful past to decay?
Transforming the thoughtless present into a living and deceiving lie.

Quiet as an empty cememtary,
the past seems to stab sharply..
Becoming humane, as if it were living again.
As all the dead will soon rise, never having a lifeful end.

Gray as a shadow
Gray as the sky
It's almost like the past lives again.
Refusing to ever say a gentle...
"...good bye".