HardScuffle

There's an exhalation
The long-held breath
With the assimilation
Of all that's left

In letting go, we take upon
Our weary, traveled selves
That which, at first, when we had gone
We'd left upon the shelves

And often, then, in honesty
An honest plea is raised
That some leave off false modesty
And others empty praise

Whatever the vice, those circumspect
May try for more of the same
But some, like me, show no respect
For traditions of guilt and shame

So I, in this, will turn my head
And with it my wearied form
And remember again to release the dead
And greet the new day's morn

To brush the dew with younger feet
Yet never without their callous
To forge ahead but not forget
No mercy, and no malice