The past is dead

The past becomes dead

at the exact moment

that it fades from the present.

-

After that, it is me who is responsible

for constantly reviving it

for better or for worse,

it is me who chooses

to electrify the corpse,

-

to turn the past

into memory

and to allow it to stick

like tree sap to the mind.

-

It is me who chooses

to taunt myself by turning

the worst of the past

back into present,

-

by spinning the wicked wheel

once again

and feeling its pain,

the projector’s output burning my skin.

-

It is me who chooses to retreat into memory,

to dance with the shadowy figures of past,

to wear those rose-tinted glasses

and to fool myself,

-

to convince myself that

other parts of this life

were somehow more worthy.

-

It is only the present that truly exists,

and I intend to spend it

working away from the dead past

and towards a stronger future,

-

it is all in my control,

it is all in my control,

-

fate may intervene but I will bend rather than break

and when it is intended for me to break,

I will do so willingly,

-

happily giving in to the wants of a higher power,

happily fulfilling my role like a performer,

-

my Oscar nominated death rendered faintly upon stone.

-

The past is dead,

and I no longer plan to torture it

or myself

by ceaselessly reviving it,

-

by Frankensteining history back into the present,

-

by allowing its shadow to cling to the Sun.

-

I am in control,

until control is lost to me

and taken by old age

or sickness.

-

The past is long dead,

and these very words are dying

just as fast as you read them,

dissolving into memories soon to be discarded.

-

The past is indeed

dead.