Smudges

We go to wipe the past away
But always, we leave smudges —
A thing that’s quite apparent.
Even less discerning judges

Will see the telltale signs we leave,
The trace of what once was:
But habits of denial are
Among our chief faux pas

Why is that we con ourselves?
I cannot really say —
I just live with my smudges, now,
They never
Go
Away

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