This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

Hand against the cold glass,
Condensation runs like tears
Down the outside of my leaden heart.

The past is a thunder
Of regrets rolling through my time and space,
Where blunt winds of despair
Buffet against the rocks
That my childhood was smashed upon.

These rains cannot grow
Beauty from the mire,
Nor tempests scour the dirt away.
The dawn will not break open a new day,
But seal the history away from eyes
That would seek to understand.

And what is left, but one who finds
The sunlight to be a force to run from,
And a candle to be a light of burning pain,
For monsters cannot tread the floorboards
Where light dwells brightly,
A beacon against the liquid night.

Let the past be the past,
And let me go with it.

This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.