Nostalgia Relapse into the arms Of a god you thought was dead And rebirth into a life You’d exiled from your head. But that’s what it does, That vile thing, That dares remind me What happened. What happened to my friends, What happened to my home, What happened to my mother, What happened to my throne. Welcome to Nostalgia, And grip it like a vice, Because clinging to the past Is like holding onto ice. It hurts, it burns, It makes you wish you were dead. And the more you clutch it tight, The quicker it’ll grow red With the blood poets call beautiful. And maybe I’m a poet. Twisting nostalgia And twisting limbs To make my words stretch into place And make them perfect, Oh, so perfect, But trust me, dear, it’s not a race. Now you’ll race into the future, Thinking you won’t look back, But even one small glance, And suddenly the future goes black.
