Why am I scared
to make amends?
To let go, move on,
stop holding on to this
in fear?

In the end, it matters little
what I held so dear.

When in death
it becomes
abundantly clear,

that the mental gymnastic escalations
of thoughts eternally bound
to internal consternation

that, in effect,
will reflect,
then reject
all modicums
of self-respect,

and leave me

in some other place alone,
unsurrounded
by other souls,
and astounded
by all I’m yet to know,

all I’ve yet to let go,
to stop holding on,
start moving on,

and make amends with a past
I cannot change.

Only learn from.