The Things We Hold

Loathing and Love get their wellspring here

The Things We Hold

 

In the deep reserve of our minds,

lies a place

that stores the things we hold.

 

How they get there

is the enigma of hours spent

by shrinks and sayer's

it's path cloaked in darkness.

 

This place that we hold

so sacrosanct is dark and damp

cobwebs and creaky floors.

 

Like broken rocking chairs

neatly stacked boxes and dirty toys

the room of our inner most keep

is a reflection on our own.

 

What makes it there

has little to do

with our choice

pressed flesh leaves a mark.

 

What is kept

what is removed

is another order.

 

Once these things

behind the skeleton key door

are placed

they are sometimes hard to remove.

 

It's not hard to access

this room

we seem to wander

in and out

without penchant

a stroll to the market.

 

But while we are moving

in this room

we sweep and clean

finding and uncovering the

boxes of memories

savory, those that seem to caress

the soul and gird the mind.

 

Yet there are dirty toys in the corner

unpacked boxes still stacked

we move around the room

as if they are not there

parchment that has invisible ink.

 

Times you smell

the acrid stench

of rot and indifference

that comes under the welcome

mat of the room and makes

it to the olfactory place of the frontal lobe.

 

Yet we visit this room

the things are kept

not noticing the rot

the dirt smell

and spider webs moving in the gentle breeze

of neglect to sanity.

 

It's a pity

when we can't decipher

between those things kept

and those places un-kept

a real prefix problem.

 

 

So many men and women

kept from joy

ripples into their lives

so many children, friends

siblings and co workers

affected by this deluge.

 

We move through our days, whistling,

like the boy in the dark

"it's ok here",  he says.

it's ok to be with

the things I keep

it has to be.

 

Or does it,............