Pressed

The meadow grasses have grown tall
The foliages thickened, skeletons of leaves
Imprinted irreversibly in the earth rejoicing
In the cloudbursts that blur my thoughts
With its incessant downpour of memories.
The overgrown, thickened, pasty yet
Solidified memories that I would happily
Scrape off the walls of my ailing heart…

Like I had a choice – what was done, was done;
What was changed isn’t going to change again…
What was pressed onto my face is what I’ll remember
Always, without a choice called moving on….
Who took my hand when I cried may count
And who caressed my wounded spirits,
But the other side of fingerprints would remain;
What was pressed onto my face is what I’ll remember…

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