Oftentimes I wear my regrets like an
Iron Maiden
to drive home the many points
in my life
when I did as I ought not to have,
or did nought at all,
so the regrets can pierce to the
heart
of many matters,
reminding me with penetrating
insight
to do things differently next time,
and, so, this fanged clamp of
memory
can galvanize as well as
immobilize,
rendering me bloodless, but also
fearless,
for if I regret enough
my threshold of pain broadens
until I no longer fear to roll into the
thorn bushes
of new situations,
whereas if I were to flinch away
from the bloodletting possibilities
I might simply fling myself into
the lurking thorns unseen on the
peripheries,
anemic as a blue-blooded
prince
in regicidal Denmark,
weighted down with his callow
indecision.
And so I crawl through the
deadfall
of my yesteryears
knowing that sometimes the only
closure
we can have for our regrets
is the many scabs
sealing over the wound,
ready to break open
and bleed anew.
You’ve made your bed
of nails,
now lie in it.
Yes,
the bite stings strongly with the
familiar fangs
of my own bear-traps.
I have honed them myself
through a lifetime of brooding
with whetstone relentlessness.
For what are regrets
if not
hunting traps
we set so intentionally
for ourselves?
Regrets
Published
Tangleroot And Tressknot 