history's ballroom

Time, what do you intend to teach me now, you evil Witch? For sneaking back into my life, holding Irony's hand, I curse you.

I've danced with Pain and left this ball before. Shattered.

I've picked up the pieces:

Repainted Memory's portrait to include Nostalgia (for what never was).
I've cried to songs sung by Despair...
And I have watched you Time:
As you birthed Spring effortlessly from a brutal Winter, and with Summer giving me the pretence of Hope.
Allowing me with the space to lick my wounds.

And hear I am.

Back at the dance I was never invited to, dressed to mourn the death of Autumn.
I desperately clutch my mended pieces as they crumble through the space between my fingers, my hands shaking from the weight of my own soul.
I am standing face to face with Pain- his stare harsh, and I, lacking the courage to look away.

His hand out. Ready to firmly grip mine.
And Hope? Who once stood behind me so strongly? Nowhere in sight.
Time smiles expectantly, mocking, knowing that History will forever repeat himself through these violent balls:

And

I, yet again, am being asked to dance.