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When memories are wilted like roses with the coming of age,
And history, as you know it, is erased with the turning of every page,
A rushing river ceases flowing, boats carrying two lovers cease rowing;
An old man at his end whispers of his dying rage;
Not the last to suffer, but the last to feel a release and assuage.

Let it not hold you and keep you from the dour beauty of knowing,
That the tears which are, in gentle streams, flowing,
Are but result of the shade, from choices made,
And the wind speaks only to and through trees foregoing,
Through decades of prevailing and reigning and growing.

Nor let it caress you and comfort you from the dismayed,
That which you have conveyed
To those that can see—see through the waters of your plea,
Which once held guard, this revolting charade,
Will now be drowned in this most unholy cascade.

But I will conquer the enemy,
The enemy—the past me—
Who brought fuel to the fire, for want and desire;
I will hold onto the past but not let it destroy the—
The part of me that will still embrace it if need be.

And strike up not the lyre,
That was played with the beauty of sapphire
For those consecrated, for the ones who are fated
Are not lifted higher—
They are but drowned in the mud of the mire.

Now I must plead—do not let your memories become faded;
You must hold on to your past even if it is jaded,
For all you have is the past behind you; let the stars guide you,
And do not become burdened by that which is shaded,
For your dreams will come true—those you have always, with great hope, awaited.