Shorn

First in remembrance of the myths,
I uttered the timelines as I brushed.
I then collected my hair
Story by story.
Each strand weaving its pathos around another.
Knotty confusion
begot diluted and broken grievances,
holding on to dead memories and giving
a parallel life and color.
So I cut through the thicket:
“I don’t need to remember anymore.”
I let the tufts fall to their tiled grave.
A stubborn stray sentinel tendril
cajoling me,
for a good deed done five years ago.
“That mythos died when you did later that day,”
I say.
Now shorn and unobstructed
new myths can spring forth.

(This poem was inspired by a prompt here: http://www.napowrimo.net/ …If anybody can guess which poem I ganked my first line from then they should probably get a cookie)

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