Turning Old

The more I try to hold onto 21-

The more that year becomes mangled. 

The more that trauma feels unfinished…

False implications that I thought were connections.

I am losing a sense of renewal. 

That past is both hiding, yet infused within. 

I am always looking for some signs of transformation to hold onto. 

But I am constantly running into that old fate.

Always fated. 

Always trapped in fate. 

Except when I was 21...
Copyright © | Year Posted 2022

Poem

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