the past is a
rose bush as seen
from a rolling hill
beneath clear skies
on a summer afternoon
a gentle breeze
dandelion dander dancing
in ticklish tufts
as you admire
the crimson buds
the faint sweet scent
plays softly with
every deep inhalation

it is upon
closer inspection
that we find the thorns
gleaming wickedly
the painful pricks
of those past indiscretions
that slowly colored
the vermillion petals
now flush with blood
each wilting bloom
blackened at the edges
loses its luster upon
too close an examination

the past is a briar crown
squeezing tightly upon
fond misremembrances where
we cast dispersions to explain
the insolence of our own actions
a blizzard of razored petals
slashing our souls to ribbons
as bloody tears obscure
these snapshots of the past
with a crimson hued dismay
truth and lie skewered on thorns
until one is impoosible
to differentiate from the other