The past has become not only meaningless but boring,
All that is left is grief, of its endless heavy stirring;
To let something go when there's so much that I loved to replay,
Like feeling that pang for the destitute, as they fall away.
A birth that enters in grey - without a name, without a home
To go to, no memory of the way things should have been,
But still it goes forward in knowing...we follow, who don't know,
The ones who once thought we knew, through lessons repeated,
Traumas recounted - a bird that has faded away, now seen
In the youngest eyes, as clear as the widening sky.
