I hold my head up high on pillars
of fossilized thoughts
mountains of worries
scaffolds of fears

hovering in a timeless maze
bleeding from barbed moments,
relentlessly regretting.

A tumbling, churning mess
a past without margins
where to begin making sense of it all.

My memories are raucous company
that overstay their welcome
and refuse to take off
their boots at the door,
tracking mud throughout the house.

Scotia Gilroy
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