the unforgiving sands of time
pour en masse
a raging flood through the narrow neck
of the hourglass
the past stifles
constricting like a noose
the old skin of a moulting cicada
struggling its old self to lose
with eager notes of merriment
the reaper's scythe hums and sings
severing past from present
sundering heartstrings
and torn a gossamer veil falls
coloured dull with dark memories
but few bright spots of happier times
windborne it drifts into unending eddies
within the gaping maw
of my personal cupboard
to clothe a massive host
of skeletons unnumbered
one day no doubt the trumpet call
shall lash out terrible and fierce
and out shall march my darkest secrets
armed with my deepest fears
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