I can remember the past, a past that is filled with thorns in all the roses that I smelled.
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A past that burned like ice on the palms of a newborn child.
A past that is vivid like memories of the womb.
Confusion, mayhem, despiration, live, loved and lost only to be found in the arms of the present.
She is kind to me. She strokes the top of my head and tells me that everything will be alright, after awhile, after awhile.
I believe that the dark cloud will still rain down on my head but it will clean my body my mind and soul. I AM OK! I AM OK!
I scream to the clouds LET THE RAIN DROPS FALL! Let them fall until they create an ocean under my feet. Let the black sand glow with such radiance that it will pave the way for lost souls to reach penticle where they are o.k.
Let my ill babies grow, let them grow like the wild flowers in the field like my brother.
Let my past be a beacon of hope to the little boy that sits alone.
May the best of your past be the worst of your future.
IN THE END THE LAS WILL BE FIRST.