Fumbling through confessions
Scripted on paper slips
The box fits in the palm of my hand
But is comparably more honest
To think that three hours ago
These papers did not exist
It would have been shouts
And slamming of mouths and fists
All it took was reaching
To the back of an abandoned shelf
Why do I even keep so many things?
To remind me of my humanity?
To remind me of what this all was?
What am I supposed to do with memory?
Why would you want to remember?
Why would you even try?
The items scattered in my room
Fall off the face of feeling
I am awed by the space I preside
Eyeing walls and floors and chairs
I see the maze of subtle humbled
By the planes and angles
The coarse of stepping stairs
Capping the crisp cardboard top
Painted in your own wist
The box is put back on the shelf
Leaving just me
emptying and dishonest
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