Do I dwell in the house of my own sins… seems I can not extricate myself from this neighborhood, or perhaps I can not even escape my very own skin, I feel I wear my shame as if they are tattoos, I feel they are seen even if the ink is invisible, because this is still perceptible to me, this is what haunting is, how can I throw up a mask, and never see through eyes looking at the construct – from the other side, outside, how would I know if my game, my rouse, my trick, my defense – is an adequate fence, but on the inside, the strength ebbs and flows, I wonder if the cracks there do expose, these are not just skin deep, they are buried in the dirt of my soul, just under the surface, markers mark, like gravestones, a sinking feeling when to atone seems fruitless upon those stoic stones with slight passages, like a leafless peach tree alone in a field, ever dark, even in the sun’s glory, seemingly not suitable for even an inhabitant, or a rodent at that, and the roots still staked, snaked, into that fallow foul ground, so perhaps these are not tattoos I see, they are stains, once ingrained can not be pulled from the grasp of frame, much like my flesh can be separated from bone, until that end, until that end I wear these, or am tagged by these, yes, I can not change the past, but it is forever changing me, perhaps even holding me back, and no my sins were no mortal wounds, but transgression is in the eye of the beholder, and the mind of time that loops in such a place. (stream of consciousness post…)
Shades of My Garden 