opened glass

every good book ever written goes unread,

fixtures on shelves, painted faces upheld

holding words they know no eyes will see.

we can’t all exist for the ages; the scrolls have no space. some of us were built for the here and now: for firework shows and the baby that has never seen so many sparks in their life, for brushes of touch that last a second or less, for phone calls and pictures never taken. some of us have the luxury of a judgement-free life. we get messy and it’s ours to deal with, no one else.

i retrace my old path,

larger footsteps impress on yielding ground

and i think i saw a glimpse of who i used to be.