What's Past (Poetry)

It won’t be left alone —
it clings and whines and sinks
it’s teeth — familiar with
old wounds.

Mistakes set deep in stone —
an albatross that stinks
it’s weight the measure of
picked bones.

The almost-buried groan —
a memory that links
those yesterdays grief might
disown.

The past’s an empty throne
in halls where no one drinks —
all shadows now — for time
has flown.