The past was cold, dark and dreary,
emotions rained but I wasn't weary.
Like a tendril clinging to moist wall,
but on every shake dead leaves fall.
The eve was cold, dark and dreary,
but the midnight I hope isn't weary.
The ghosts of my past still hanker,
dragging back like a rusty anchor.
My gloom is the common fate of all,
in each life though some rain must fall.
The dawn I feel now is glad and merry,
but the past was cold, dark and dreary.
Prasenjit©2022
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