Why does the thin, grey strand
of tendril memory
floating unbroken, undetached,
why does it trouble me?
Ah, do you understand,
that what I must carry
is the motherlode of my malady,
the dust and ash of used to be,
that smoulders, and is fanned
by these old, grey cares?
When all that I pray
is sometimes that it let me be.
James Mills
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-weight/
