If memory is allowed to fester,
As if it were a small opal blotch upon a muscle,
Which is starved of air that clears away the assumptions,
Then the memory grows in swirls of shifting context and chance.
Prodded by the presence of uncertain relationships
The infested personal history oozes the pain of guilt
Discharging a discolored pus of shame.
And in course of time it breaks the surface of consciousness
The human heart collapses with a crack as if tall pines snapped in two.
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