Lightbulbs

In one small section of my brain,

the door eases shut,

but the light remains.

Around the corner down the hall,

a different storage room collects dust.

The room’s old light bulb is ice cold to the touch;

frail and unused — surely unable to stay on

without blinking with uncertainty.

 

In this hall, the floors are cracked,

stained with years of

children scurrying to and from,

knowledge expanding

beyond the walls of just one room.

 

Over time the department gets smaller

and smaller.

Old lightbulbs collect inside a box.

Soon, the hall empties — boxes stack,

stored untouched.

Walls weaken with age,

doors rust unused.

 

Occasionally, maintenance is done;

a curious growing child goes back

to her roots, seeking what she once knew.  

Boxes are pried open, doors swing wide;

the hall lights up as the dust is washed off.

Each room brightens temporarily.

 

At the end of the day, the girl goes home,

and the boxes shut;

seemingly neglected still,

dust piles again.

She leaves with intentions to go back;

to revisit and clear the dust.

One day she hopes

to keep the department alive,

for as long as she can help it.

Pixelated Parchment

the future is a blank canvas as i draw rough drafts at every moment,

as i map my past and present.

if i zoom out i see what’s really there; a blur of feeling and subjective perspective.

in the fog, i see what i want to see.

i breathe the fresh air, feeling the wind rush between my fingers.

if you try to catch the wind or the rain

you will be empty handed, wet and cold wondering what you can grasp.

in life it is best to grasp at two things;

your own freezing cold hand and those of your nearest companion.

perhaps he who sits across from you at the dinner table

or who sleeps beside you beneath the sheets.

it could also be your loveliest friend,

each serving a purpose to keep you grounded

as you navigate the world

as you see it, as you see fit.

it never ends;

in one moment i hold the reins for myself

but in the next i’m the co-pilot

advising someone on their next landing.

as the plane halts to a stop it dawns on you;

together you did it, diving head first

into the depths of this world—

in that moment— to alter the course of time.

the map readjusts its pixelated landscape 

to your new predicament.

you clutch the parchment

as you walk, blindly clinging onto the shift in the pixels;

hoping for the nearest treasure—

hoping you, your companion, and your map

will find a good hiding spot to lay low

and watch as the canvas finishes itself.

the plane lands, flown by an expert

and a very confidently helpful co-pilot.

Unconquered Lands

I am speck in time

connected by moments pinned on a board.

As I watch, the string hangs,

disentangled from the past.

In my mind time plays like a black and white movie,

a distant memory.

 

Waves of longing no longer crash into me

instead, sputtering up to where I stand at the shore

as a reminder.

A brief encounter with what was,

the ocean of experiences is now open for tourists

and I am its first and most frequent visitor;

reminiscing in its scenery, hesitant to dive into its depths.

 

The beach that is memory lane is never far.

Some days I make the drive

but others, I turn away and go home.

Choosing to look at all that’s in front of me,

I see myself as a whole;

a little bird stuck in a forest of trees,  

surrounded by endless unconquered lands.

 

I stopped longing for the water

when I flew home.

With a distant feeling of weightlessness and

something bittersweet,

my vacation goggles are off, stored safely in an old shoe box.

The chain breaks at last;

life renewed, larger oceans to be discovered.