In nights like these when owls howl,
and crickets go quiet,
I call upon the deceptions and dreads of life.
And if I say,
nothing new grows there, I would be lying.
I see the pasts catering to old sorrows,
And dark bruises go green by time.
Even they, the most damned, become less sinister.
And more…
The they, who live there, in the memory,
the past me’s and them’s ,
I try…
In nights like these,
to forgive,
and let go.

I love,
the little moments of hurt and happiness alike.
I am made of them.
And when I look in the mirror,
I see in me, divided yet together,
the dark bruises that went green,
and the yellow laughter that went blue.

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