.
There’s an ancient duct tape patched
roller suitcase still up in the attic,
scarred by sky miles and undiscerning
indifference; it came to rest like a final breath
exhaled at the end of the long road ―
In the dusty rafters of silent repose
the death of an alter-ego comes to life
and jars and jogs the sleeping dogs
that lay benign as a pothole riddled road
Holding onto memories buried alive,
hidden away remembered ―
sans wings to fly away
laid bare unweighed with the weight
of everything else garnered and saved
subsisting in a shallow grave;
hoarded and hidden away breathing
locked up with the other baggage borne
behind tired eyes
Feeling the ache of blood stained knees
falling down sullied at the side of the road
Hindsight and a roll of duct taped memories
linger; stuck to the grey bandage scars,
second guessing should have thrown out
with the permanently temporary
fading plasticized luggage name-tags
back when I was still close enough to care;
too many miles to reconsider ago
Some say: "it's the journey not the destination" .
Some day when its too late we'll know
Some day it will be too late to make amends
for everything i could not be ...
harlon rivers ... 07 06 2018
