The past is like a novel, one of its kind, discreet,
Self-authored, on real experiences, bittersweet.
A novel of novelty can be read from anywhere, anytime,
Incidents close to the heart, a chance glance at the gone by times.
A spontaneous habit, I oftentimes visit the past,
Indelible remembrances illuminate my heart.
Memories happy, funny, comforting, soothing, pleasurable,
Emotion-drenched, joyfully sunny evocations unforgettable.
Memories of the past can also be teary, tormenting,
Certain losses, lifetime, irreparable are heart-wrenching.
Past, to count my blessings, is inherent, inevitable,
The pearls of thoughts and bliss, past bestowed are invaluable.
A whole nation can be ignited referring to its history,
A subject, entirely based on highlighted past occurrences and stories.
The past is the one and only time segment,
That has actually been experienced and spent.
Future is a myth, only supposition, cannot be pledged,
The present is momentary, can hardly be gripped or grabbed,
Past is for real, a strong connection can be associated,
Though formed of moments that cannot be retracted.