Moving on,

How does one know when or how to do so?
What is truly buried beneath these words?
The ability to forget? Or to be forgotten?
Letting go, leaving behind what was once so loved?
No, that doesn’t feel, nor sound right,
True and sincere acceptance of fate and approval of it?
Having to accept is never free willed, but inevitably forced.

Thinking I once held the sweetest cup of life between my hands,
How can drinking it now, taste so bitter?
The pain begins with the burn on my lips,
As I feel its poison enrich my veins.

Is it wrong to hold on? To wish, to dream?
Tell me if I should embrace hope, as if it were to change time?
There’s a fine line between wanting, longing and pure blindness
Loosing the will to see beyond, to live beyond the trees of darkness,
Which once were planted deep within, only now show their evil,
How can one think? When all it seems I can do is feel?
Feel the pain of a burning candle, and the life of a new born tear.

Moving on is not a phase nor a time, it’s a journey,
Of remembrance, reflection and realisation of reality,
Life moves on, and it hits as hard as a wall of bricks,
When you become the subject, that all move on from.