Packing

Packing

 

She wanted to fit her life in a suitcase,

up and go at any moment,

of time, or whim, or wonder,

or window of opportunity.

 

But the baggage would only ever pile up high,

filling every crack and crease, lined face,

until the suitcases ceased existence,

and a life of boxes began to spill over.

 

The landlord would tell her to move on,

and the process began of packing,

pulling out clothes,

folding stories,

throwing out whispers of moments past,

wanted forgotten.

 

Like that dress she wore on the first date,

with that man,

that man who hurt her heart,

only enough to want to run.

 

Or the small vase,

cracked like her heart.

 

The dusty note books piled high,

packed low,

hidden,

scared to be opened,

for what would spring from there,

those pages.

 

She found the long lost precious,

a small stone of pinky hues.

 

A pressed flower,

paper thin,

colour dulled,

but remained to remind,

of the sweet smell of spring.

 

She sorted piles,

of memories,

moments,

times, passed, to be kept.

 

And things to give on,

move on,

give in.

 

She threw trauma to the wind,

or in the bin.

Torn wears,

she had not any more cares.

 

She thought on the process of packing,

if I don’t need these things,

then,

now,

why would I ever?

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About dustforthedancers

Poet, creative, cultural and community seeder, feeder, maybe one day I'll be a leader. Of my own path at least...
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