There is a box,
Full of things from my old house,
It is a box full of a former life,
Full of things that are out of date,
Out of time,
Out of my life,
But still in my room.
As I pull items out of the box,
I am pulling on threads of the past,
History unfurls around me,
The floor is littered with yesterdays,
My memories incarnate
Discarded,
Covered in dust.
Breakthrough looks like a black bag,
Some things cannot remain in a cardboard tomb,
They must be put away for good,
And I must let go of the things that have no use,
So I can reach for new things,
Create new memories,
Make new histories.
