We’ve become a town of whiners—
Therapists, dog walkers, horny priests,
Encouraging healing; insisting on making
Peace
With a forever fallen past.

We look with sullen gratitude,
At the trophies of open, bleeding wounds,
Sliced by life’s more “lifey” moments,
And dull our personas so we can rest in safety;
Secure in the cribs we found in our attics,
Carried to the damp basements,
Where spiders spin webs, scurry in the shadows.

No longer do we carry our overly sensory memories in those dark sacks,
A clutter of feral cats,
A troupe of lost minstrels.

But no longer, now healed, do we feel any meaning,
In this thing we once called life,
Existence.