headline poetry

boxes covered with city grime
dried spider carcasses
years of conglomerated decay
are filled with pictures of dead people
souvenirs of dead times with the living
evidences of all the dead versions of me

to make a life continuous
dreams and fantasies
evolved and grown
or cherished and remained
are a far shore from
the goals and expectations
and the treasured stinky grime
of the passing of all my days

to what do i cling
this raft of a life
made of what i call love
in the wavy sea of my days
among the scattered wreckage
of thousands of days of doing
i search in vain for this love
missing it’s enduring place
ungraspable always yet
permanent in my silent stillness

anyway, why had i packed my life away,
what was i saving it for?
some voice claimed it good and true
and told me i would find one day
myself
fresh and juicy
in the bottom of a moldy cardboard box