The past is mirrors, row on row at slants
I walk upon the spot, hour after year,
and what will spark a smile, provoke a tear
is the half-sight, for seconds, in a glance

of my own younger face, and what I knew
or thought how much a mess my life would be.
And most of them are turned to misery
a few to crazy, can’t believe it true

that I got through. Muddle, and drink, and pain
became the shining ink with which I write.
Wasted days moaning, lay awake at night.
Depression, wasted time, has turned to gain

I see those gloomy faces and I laugh
Life took so much, gave back all and a half.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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