Scattering The Past Poem by Vincent Topp

On his birthday he rose an hour earlier than normal,
He wanted to beat the early morning rush hour traffic.
To a place where he spent a lot of his childhood,
Good thoughts, good fun, good feelings,
To a place where he could feel those feelings again.

When he got there he sat in his car for ten minutes or so,
Collecting his thoughts hoping for déjà-vu,
It was there he could feel it, thank god.

It wasn’t a suicide trip,
A last look at his favourite places,
But he was down as low as you can go,
He needed a spark, a sign, a lust to carry on.

This was a service,
This was a mass,
This was d-day for him.
An invisible urn holding all his bad thoughts and memories,
Were to be scattered into the air,
Scattering the past and starting all over again.