The Past is the Past is the Past is the Past

Mornings wasted sleeping,
Nights spent up too late,
Afternoons gone to mindless,
Nothings.

Joy in the morning,
Boredom in the afternoon,
Pain by evening,
Sorrow by dusk,
Angst by twilight,
Loneliness by midnight.

The the blissful nothingness,
Of sleep.

Why is it that the dragons,
And the fairies,
The unicorns and the,
Pure magic,
Linger just long enough for us,
To wish they remained,
Before they dissipate completely?

Is it too much to ask,
To return to days of,
Innocence,
And fun and laughter?
To just return,
For a day,
An hour?

It is.
Why can we not rewind time,
Just let loose and relive all that we've lost?

Is it such a crime,
To let time stop so we can,
Immerse ourselves in the,
Blackness unknown of the past?
Is it so bad,
To reopen the wounds we suffered,
So that we can see the joy that was,
Stolen from us,
In days long ago,
Walked through?