Endorphin

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

The past is never finished, never gone.

It comes to haunt you, ever living dead.

It sucks tomorrow’s blood, today’s.  A thrawn

Dead Janet it refuses to be bled

Though it be burned to ash.  The past drags dreams

At night all braided in with nightmare life.

In afternoons you beckon it in streams,

In daydreams.  There it never conjures strife

And so you know that it is false and not

To be encouraged, but you do.  You sail

Upon the past in gold-clad cruising yacht

You never owned and never could unveil.

  We resurrect the past as with a cave

    Witch necromancer.  We are past’s live slave.