time to clean my secret escapes of time
old objects from young cinnamon days
strewn in dusty heaps of past adventures
lost in fading suns of summer innocence
preserved in peacock bottles of promise
or feeble sparks that lit up my dark nights
safe under joists bearing legends of love
but crammed between worn slats of age
stuffed on damp shelves of bygone paths
frayed with coats sullied by winter wonder
misplaced lights warming forgotten hopes
voices begging to not be left or forgotten
like my invincible heroes in mislaid piles
sketched in books decaying in sepia stain

walled in my dim dungeon of cement grey
I sense a loss of some small pieces of me
locked as numb dreams in scruffy suitcases
or withering boxes of neglected trinkets
my wilting plans of an unfinished home
cover tarnished tins of vanishing photos
hastily cast in echoing tolls of brass bells
drowning prophecies smothered in time
by friendly spells of infinite imagination
but still—reality needs some vacuuming
while old smells and colors make me sad
I pray goodwill can fill some empty hearts
and as I wander in this outpost—I accept
that my future in things—is nearly gone