You have only to wait.

You have only to wait, they will find you;
like tendrils of fog they will infiltrate the cracks,
will seep under closed doors,
they will spread outward across the floor,
lapping at chair legs, licking at baseboards.

They are the good intentions,
the broken promises,
the words spoken in anger,
residue from ill intent.

They carry with them the hatchet unburied,
the sharp-edged grudge,
the dull anger of denial,
the horns of hate.

You cannot outrun them
for they stick to you like burrs,
clinging to your clothing,
staining your lily-white hands,
darkening your innocent brow.

They are the karma that grows,
the debt unpaid,
the sorries unsaid,
the guilt of neglect.

They plague you with what ifs,
should haves,
might have beens.
They replay scenes you’d rather forget
and you burn with shame
and with sorrow and with guilt.

These are the sins unconfessed;
no priest can absolve these iniquities,
no number of Hail Marys will wash
the blood from your hands.

You have only to wait.
Memories forgotten will surface
like the weathered bones of dinosaurs,
grotesque and monstrous,
in the eroding rock strata of your defences.
Every bone exposed, every hurt feeling,
every harsh word is there.

They do not remain buried in the past,
hidden behind the screen of humour,
of good deeds,
of an exemplary life.

Someday all the ill once afflicted on others
will return to haunt you,
to creep in through your bedroom walls
and crawl under the covers,
caressing you with horny hands,
tweaking you and tugging at the blankets
until you can stand it no longer,
until you cry out in your sleep,
“I confess! It was I! I did those horrible things!”

For when that day arrives,
the day they find you and foul you
with their fiendish residue,
that day you will learn,
perhaps too late,
that love was all that was necessary,
forgiveness freedom unfettered,
tolerance a virtue above all.

You can wallow in the despair of past decisions
or you can open the door,
the window,
and your heart.
For life is short and love
is everything.