The Shape Of What Remains Poem by ashok jadhav

I am not only standing in this hour,
But walking with the echoes of my past.
Each memory presses lightly on my name,
A fingerprint I never chose to keep.
Some moments shine like coins held to the sun;
Some bruise the mind and darken what came after.
I speak with voices learned in earlier rooms,
I fear with lessons gathered long ago.
Even the things I claim to have outgrown
Return disguised as instinct or as doubt.
The self I know is stitched from what I was,
A fabric worn thin in remembered places.
Yet memory is not a faithful guide;
It bends and shifts with every telling told.
So who I am remains a moving shape,
Formed by the past, but never bound to it.