Nostalgia is such a fickle feeling.
A delicate flower with razor thorns.
Bright enough to draw the eye to its color,
But sharp enough to wound if gripped too tightly.

It is a dangerous vine to me.
It never withers or fades.
It seeks to trip the un careful,
And lock a person in place.

I have learned to prune such a plant,
And cut off flowers when I see teeth within.
I have seen others trapped,
Even as the illusions it whispers become invisible.
It poisons quickly to bring pain,
And swallows the heart from the inside.

In small doses it is a pleasant thing,
A tea from its rosehips to bring comfort.
But if let grow for too long,
Can become that wraith called Sorrow or that trickster called Longing.