It's not so much that it is hard

as easier to seal into,

in secret dark, a cellar barred

away, the wants I knew I knew

would always be, and tell myself

the better thing would be to will

them gone. But bowed, a burdened shelf

within me creaks beneath them still.

And days are long when measured 

in regrets replete with years

of gifts I should have treasured,

turned to moldered souvenirs.

I know this lesson now, I say, 

but still I take my time,

and lose in a despondent way

what left of it is mine.

My body says "I'm tired,"

"You tire me," retorts my spirit,

and hisses, "Damn you, cut me free."

I struggle not to hear it.

And maybe it's the weight of what

I shouldn't say that bids me seek

a rock to whisper to the things that

I had lacked the grace to speak

when there was time — I know there never 

was a possibility 

but also know that it were better

had I mourned, then, and honestly.