Yesterday fell out of a box.
The shadows grew longer,
as I ran to escape them.
The glow from each memory,
lit my lonely heart,
and the pain from yesterday,
refused to depart.
Yesterday passed by my window,
in a slow procession,
as I tried to forget faces.
Each face told its story,
of the man forlorn.
And the stories like them,
went meandering on.
Yesterday stood in my mirror.
The books were settled,
as I tried to lose count.
A tear for each smile,
a scar for each sin,
until the returning stranger,
had to be let in.
Yesterday is the fire,
around which we gather.
The splinters sting us,
and yet we stay,
to forget the cold of today.
