The Past

I wonder
When it will end,
My mind ponders
Which way I will bend;

Should I run as if demons
Were on my track?
Should I stay
Without looking back?

Looking at the past,
Wondering the future,
It would seem so absurdly fitting
that I understand the present.

I can't stay.
I must,
I have to look away,
Or risk turning into a statue
At the smallest glance over my shoulder.

Feelings of joy are lost
Never to be found or felt again.
The laughter is gone,
The towers of dreams have collapsed
To heaps of rubbish.

But I must take a glimpse
At who I was then
To even comprehend who I am now.
I take a peek -
A short, fleeting peek
Behind me.

And then I turn rigid.