Where The Past Goes to Hide

The years are dust
The light is now
And the room is made of riddles

The questions that get asked
When no one could expect an answer

Of why we did
The things we did
And how we casually dispensed
With friends
With time
With life

I have a secret in this room
It is my burden, alone

For while greed has its economy
And envy has its politics
Regret
Has only an attic

Author: Owen Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure. View all posts by Owen Servant

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