I can keep remembering the memories
That should be trapped inside, in cupboards
That keep more welcoming things like custard powder and baking soda
It's all written on the grocery list of week's work
My workingman's dead
You do not have one of the things, or feelings
On the list of items meant for non-believers who hang like non-living things
Having their own non-living features and redeeming ways, still recuperating
Have we lost our ways, or I keep asking myself have I forgotten anything
If I can't title my desires and compartmentalize them, in closets meant for clothes
These are what I wear, revealing some cracks in the deep-ends
Broken places and war, you're stuck just like the rest of the thespians who seek purpose
Is it just an act, or am I looking at the story unfolding?