I am a hymn, in a hidden drawer.
I'm just waiting to be found,
like my grandfather,
and his father
and the father
before
him.

But what if-    I am the broken shower rod,
the abandoned one?
the less-than important one?
I ask because I'm terrified
of losing more than just
myself .

Self commentary aside, are we not all
two halves of the same loaf of bread?
Destined to grow mold, or become hard and
bitter? Can we not see our own mortality until we
are truly and utterly faced with it?
I know it's just a maze.

And like my Father's son, I am a mouse looking
for cheese in the farthest corners, the deepest
pieces of my own existence.
But like cheese,
and like mice,
one day I will grow old, and wither away.

So brush the dust and burn the fur,
watch my skeleton grey.
Don't mind the mess
from the "accident."
I was never meant to stay.
No, I was never meant to stay at all.