it is that time of year again,
the day is almost here –
the one that stained my calendar
and cost me all my years.
the pages turn, the months unfold,
each seeming like the last –
but all are stained by that cursed date,
that makes the present past.
twenty-four pages ripped,
but each feels like the first –
two years, or minutes, I’m unsure,
since the day that my world burst.
two years your head’s been made of stone,
two years my heart has froze –
And still it feels like minutes since
our world was overthrown.