The Past Prison

This wretched, dead thing
Dangling, dragging behind me.
Weighted down by the damage
and deep scars 
of years,
hurt scabbed over...

Never fully healing,
Never really having a reaping
in the soul.
This thick, shired, cut up life,
Dense beneath my feet.
Wet with my own tears, mud like
and new...

Holding my heart down,
like lighter notes 
underneath the strength of musk.
And, I stood in a place
And, I sank,
fell down under some altar of you
that I created time-well,
but full of esteemed regret,
some heavy, burdened life
pulling at my shoulders,
keeping me in the thud of this mud.

I wanted forward,
to a place where this life 
had something for me.
But, this heavy dead, dangling past life 
held me here,
riddled with illusions
of comfort...

But, whole views 
of mirror things
told different stories.
Tales of illegitimacy in ruin
and trusts that were shallow 
and empty.

And, I fell underneath
the weight of it,
that dead, dangling past life
that was here
and full
and consuming.

I accepted it.
And, I lay there underneath
it's burdened weight.

I closed my eyes,
breathing in and out
a release of relent.

Jason Christopher Johnson 
November 23, 2012