To outrun this I might not,
History has dredged itself,
Up from underneath,
The debris of time,
The dead walk amongst us now,
Oh how I wish I may not meet them,
Beguiled by them,
Only to leave me interred,
In its own dreadful sarcophagus ,
That of the regretful past.

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be sure to purge (thoughts,ideas,complaints) if at all you feel the nudge

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