It feels as if my mind is sorting

through drawers of memories,

and racks of distant days, which

hang, in darkened places where

doors no longer close properly,

and keys, hang, perilously in

rusted, broken locks, waiting for

that moment when the last, slow

breath will bring them all down;

a crumbling into the eternal now,

where form cannot be folded, or

stored, and there is nothing which

can be neatly hung, or kept hidden;

as the pungent camphor of hope,

dissolves in deliquescent grace.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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1 Response to sorting

  1. lynndiane says:

    Superb “spring-cleaning” metaphor…takes me into the mind’s storage room with it’s sights, smells and memories…and “deliquescent” is the perfect word here (had to look it up).

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