Toss the clutter
to the clouds.
What I want is not inside
cramped closets
stuffed with miscellaneous mistakes,
noisy knick knacks, and
the burly bones of the past;
I buried my beast long ago.
Excavating me,
like digging my way out of
a cave that’s collapsed;
I used to gasp,
wheezing sourness
a hollow tomb,
conserving breath,
biding time to death.
Once resigned grave,
make room!
I am exiting you
like my own womb.
I’m leaving these flowers
strewn for a lover
with no antiquities to hide;
he left his fossil
in the carpet of my pride.
Will my future self
heed the imprint
over great divide?
Even in closeted darkness
only this future turns key,
removed a screen,
help me complete
my last spring clean.
.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
Sounds like you have too much junk!
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OK?
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Yes. still uncluttering here, it seems.
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OK. Manana
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por supuesto.
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love that marbled metaphor and that marvellous Will Sturrock print with its claustrophobic clutter 🙂
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Thanks, John. I hope some items of truth came out of that pile. It may still be too early to tell.
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