The past is a renewable resource,
A chance to add to my short repertoire.
The timeline can show lessons in mem'ries,
and old, never-been-heard-before stories.
The past is my not-so-secret garden,
With not just a path that is well hardened,
But nostalig flowers from all fond years,
And a rusty fountain of half-dried tears.
The past is my loya, burry-lined muse:
A tool that's been abused and overused;
The dead flowers have nearly all been plucked,
And fountain colds spent, no longer have luck.
I just have to find a way to loosen my grasp,
And it's necessary to stop living in the past.
Only then could I see a bright future, because,
"The past is," can turn into "The past was."