The Past

I do not regret the past
for every pain
has brought me to the present.
But
there are days.
When old shames
buried deep
bubble up,
when scare tissue
long healed
aches,
when forgotten wounds
reopen and spill remorse.
And there are nights
when every shadow
is a face
accusing and wronged,
when the dark
is crowded by ghosts
of the transgressed,
when sleep itself
seems aggrieved.

Like a chain around the neck
with each link trailing
back miles and years
to birth.

The weight
is sometimes
too much to bear.