Flashback

Iridescent wordless symbols,
When meant to find my way,
It seems that what it seems is not,
And sent to find me, in display,
Is my past self, warning me of what?
Should I not be warning him?
It seems he misunderstands this world;
His mental outer-rim.

For the past me which I stand,
Eye to eye, we meet,
His eyes seem of less blue then I,
And much less damaged, be his feet.

He tells me to kill bad men.
Is as justified a cause,
If wrongdoing can be proven right,
He deserves death for his flaws,
Yet I stand defiant in new words,
And tell him times have changed;
From he to me, it seems so wrong,
Our views have been exchanged.

He tells me he is happy with her,
I say that they won't last,
As I move on to brighter days,
He is trapped there, in the past,
To wish and wish on my behalf,
For things to all work out;
He believes now from our meeting,
That my present is his flawed route,
And as such he puts foot to ground;
He dreams the status quo,
Will never ever ever leave,
"Oh please," he begs, "don't go."

His head lays deep in words and thought;
To him, his God is real,
Yet deeper questions permeate,
What he swore he'd always feel;
In his state of deep confusion,
He turns to me and asks,
"Is this Lord of ours, still ours?
Or are we split on this, in half?"
I look to him, and sag my head,
"To me?" I double check,
"To me, my friend, yes it would seem,
This Lord of ours is dead."

In arbitrary confusion,
Mixed in with a scent of awe,
My past self turns and paces back and forth;
These new thoughts seem so raw.

Finally, he turns to me,
And looks me in the eyes,
And asks me,
"This girl I'm with, it seems so right,"
I have no heart to say she dies.
All I do is smile at him,
And say "Just let it float,
But remember that at some point,
That you'll need to let it go."

Eyes narrowed in suspicious depth,
He says that he must go.
It seems that both our dreams are over;
It's time to wake up; let life flow,
For both of us, we met as one,
Somewhere in-between,
Our split-dimensions, and I hope,
We'll meet again, and see,
How different things may still become,
In our future, plastered black;
For now I'll stay here, unaware,
And walk, blind, life's race-track.