I walked down the street
And couldn’t hear anything,
Except the fury of the past.

When past remembrance heaves its blows
At present hollowness,
The echo is deafening.

Hindsight does not make me wiser -
It tortures my tranquility
And vitiates my spirit.

Anger is a fog,
A blizzard of thoughtlessness,
Which gives way to an insidious sadness
Creeping into the workings of the mind.

I am not hurt.
I am just rigid,
Unable to close in on frivolity.

I am not serious.
I am just pensive,
Unable to dance through the dim, light-hearted night.