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