The past is dust,
Illusory and asphyxiating,
Memories kept in a domestic recreation,
A dolls house,
Boarded up windows and plastic veils,

Mental furniture coated in grey,
Left in that abandoned house,
Images of joy and grief,
Cracks filled with anger and serenity,
Dust unsettled by latter discourse,

It combats your urges to clean it up,
Caked deep on to chairs and tables,
Images burned into your brain,
You can’t wipe away this dust,
It remains in that house in your past.

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