100 DAYS OF POETRY: DAY 77 - Old Steps

Old Steps
By Stephen Martin

I remember the sharpest images and brightest things I saw with my young eyes.
The grip of such crass 'art’ scarred my invisible self.
I am yet to recover.

Now I see the wound.

So I climb into my head as I lay in bed and recollect.
I scrub myself with time.
I allow myself to realize the depth of my sickness.
I soul travel to a small child’s world.

Blame.
That’s a game I don’t want to play.
Mistakes were made,
Big mistakes that have an impact,
Their colossus repercussions expounded
with poor choice after poor choice.
My aeon is over.

I’m not a monk.
I’m married.
But perhaps my best course of action is to stop retracing old steps.

Images sourced from Pixabay

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