The past becomes a squalid place to live,
palatial though remembrance may be.
Nostalgia’s like a slum. It doesn’t give
shelter – dilapidated memory.
The walls of wallowing in what’s long gone –
your youth, its lofty hopes, a lost romance –
are windowless, opaque to flagrant dawn.
You still may circumvent your circumstance
or cultivate it, conscious that it’s brief,
inhabiting instants, quick to disappear,
each momentary mansion’s joy or grief,
or everything between. With windows clear,
you marvel viewing panoramas passed,
from home, a mobile moment, lightning fast.
Mario A. Pita
Sonnet originally published in Lyrical Emissary