A DYING SUN

Some days memories of opportunities missed, of things not done, come to haunt me. It’s like they say, ‘Hey, look, he’s having a crap time. Let’s get him.’
And they don’t tap, they’re not subtle, they stamp around, swing a baseball bat, poke, prod, disturbing me...
But what comes first? The down or the beating? Actually I don’t give a fuck, what with all the whispers, the condemnations, the home truths -
‘Why did/didn’t you...(whatever)?’ ‘You useless £$&*%@&.’
- on and on, all the way home...
...oh, how I loathe myself...
...but then, when the ghosts have blown through, when I’ve stopped fighting the doing over, a calm settles and once again I orbit my own sun, that cold and distant dying sun