nothing new ever comes from the past

 


the death of a
smile,

the slow murder
of love,

careless,
small insect
words.

the damnable
intrusion of
old wrongs,

displaced,
projected.

shot like a
bullet from
rifles of our
past--

finding a
bullseye in
the present.

a door slams.

we stand alone,
again,
holding flowers
of heartache.

 echoes of our
history pile up
around us like
dead birds falling
from the sky,

and death's closest
friend, loneliness,
leans forward,
whispering softly
into our ear,

"asshole."