The pitter patter of the footsteps of the past
won't stop tapping in my ears tonight.
It's soft, muted, padding it's way
through the more traveled parts of my mind,
but it's incessant and unbending in its purpose.
I don't mind it. I need its courage.
If the present is to be a healing parade
and I'm to wake up each day
with a scoop of hope on my plate,
then there's no time to believe in anything less
than the concept that everything else has been a test.
When the future's finest flies through my open door
and the pain that birthed my body of work
doesn't exist in my heart and soul anymore,
what will be left of me
will be what I was meant to be.
What I was made to be.
Empty of all falsity and fiction,
bare of all the lies they fed to me.