Perspective

Nostalgic inclinations drive the deplorable mind. Yearning for a time long past, beyond the distant kind. Colder than the hand of fate is the gripping fist of love. Breaking hearts and crushing souls Which none of us are above. Now a memory, written as words in a line. Repurposed pain, the modality is a rhyme. Out of focus the mind needs a cleanse. Sometimes it's the light, sometimes, the angle, and sometimes, It's the lense.