The poetry of time is that it heals all wounds,
makes difficulties easy, pours sealing wax over old flames.
It blots out the embarrassing shards of memory,
makes you believe your life was all successes
and no failures.

But time is a trickster
at any moment those scab-turned-scars can implode,
leaving chunks of your useless flesh
scattered across the floor, rotting in the sunlight of a perfect afternoon.

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