Remembrance of things past

This sweetness that surrounded us, and bled with us... We touched it, and it smelt far worse than weeds... I have touched winds... I have touched sorrows... (I touched the devil once...) ...and I have touched the past... It was like the love of thorns, like the beauty of dead summer. But I, the lurker, the carrier of wounds outlived. It. I have left now. (Have I not?) The thorns embraced us, while resemblance dragged us further down. It burried our minds. None shall outlive this rhyme...