Wednesday, 13 January 2016

Moving Boxes

Fifty earthly cycles

Life and memories passed

Packed, in piles

Moving on, moving out

Better things, and all that

New walls to smell

Spaces to imprint

Temple on wheels arrives

Boxes in boxes

Trust and faith

The future of my happiness

Lock, stock and stored.

Into the big box

An abstract of time travel

My things first , my things last

Light is falling

I see them standing

Guardians to the temple

They have power

But do not see what is in front

They have voice, I do not,

Scared and stuck, I cannot show

I have no will, and now too late

Doors to the temple closing

The guardians are going

Taking something from me.

New home, new conditions

Memories unpacked and shelved

Boxes laid flat,

Everything has a place for them

They are fine, they have their dream

But a price has to be paid

Childhood has been traded

I blame myself

Why didn't I shout out?

Fresh paint, clean walls

Am I the only, seeing the cracks

I pray to The Mother

I want my memories back

Not possible, there's no way

The portal to the temple has closed

To another world they go

Tricked and traded

A piece of me gone

Something replaces it

But I can see it's second hand

Felt by many before, faded and cracked.


  1. Melissa: I know what happened, but even if I didn't, I'd be pulled in by the intimation of the Olympians, which reminds me of Kenneth Graham's collection of stories in The Golden Age. The narrator in this poem is as voiceless as the toys that were driven away. Poignant . . .

    1. Thanks Candice!
      I know of Wind in the Willows. I should look into Graham's other work.