Wallowing in wasted memories

written with a made up mind

all the time is blinded 

by the antipathy recorded 

in the recesses of 

every fear lining my eyes. 

Stories spend a life

spinning webs of lies.

Too many, and the mind 

is caught—captive—a prisoner of time.

Blink my eyes open, 

decades passed in the vacuum 

with what was true & what was lie,

who I am, nearly subsumed—

it’s time lost that weighs the heaviest

on the adult mind.

And there is no rescue coming, 

no one to slay the weaver, but me.

Turns out I’m no prisoner,

and never a gatekeeper was she.

Because at the bottom of regret

is only a mass of misbegotten 

memories tangled & tragic with the weight 

of every retelling.

And for all the loss nothing can be done, 

but move to a fresh page and write again from page one.