An Unforgiving Past

time streams forward,
a winding procession that no longer plays of suffering,
the myriad disappointments have rested eternal
and the discontentment of the last few ages
has faded out,
soft strings plucked in sharp concord.
oddly, though, no true claim of authorship
exists upon happiness,
too much of the legend of my sensibilities
remains unwritten.

they are no less consuming,
these immense volumes of shelved feeling,
no less a much sited source of tribulation
in this new interim.
my heart persists as a multi-faceted jewel,
chiming fervent prisms about the enclosure
of crimson and ivory which houses it.
my wishfully soaring soul
survives the cast of still shadows,
ribbons of dark matter that fetter it
to the waste of an unforgiving past.