Storage

Poem

Every morning, my eyelids push open upon my brain,
and, as light streams through the windows to my soul,
the boxes and stacks of grief piled against them topple
and become a heap.
Slowly, it moves, writhes, takes on life,
as the chains attached to bulbs on the ceiling are pulled,
and the illumination reveals ill-advised moments, sloppy decisions and outright sins from the days, weeks, years before, which are jumbled up at the center of my mind.

I sigh, and begin the ritual process
of sorting, categorizing, sifting, shredding and stacking again.
By noon, I am sweeping the floor, and I am ready to get to the business of today.
I can see more clearly, now that the debris of past missteps is not obfuscating my view,
and I even begin to be grateful for it, since I will certainly live more judiciously tomorrow
based upon what I learned today.
Night falls; I am weary…Where should this go?
I will set it here; tomorrow I will find a better place for it.
And this? Where it landed; no harm can come of leaving this bit while I rest,
surely there is nothing to be solved tonight.
I drift off, and as the bulbs snap off, the darkness and blindness erase my cares and all is forgotten.

The alarm rings.

Crash.

more by VK LYNNE

photograph by Miszczuk Sylwia

Image Curve’s Manifesto