the house of my soul is too small

the house of my soul is too small
thoughts, hopes, dreams
sit in hapless piles
like mismatched socks
forlorn, forgotten
except for brief moments

there’s no room on the shelves
one thing slips off and again
it falls in a heap
crashing somewhere be low
waiting to be picked up
put away

if you dig through
who knows what may be found
i’d call it Christmas
but even that won’t help
to describe the treasures hiding
in the deep debris
waiting to be remembered
waiting to be noticed

the house of my soul is too small
much too small
i said that already
now it is more the mournful cry
pitiful recognition
that nothing else can fill the spaces
what to do?
what to do?
come in like a breath of life
like a swift running river
to wash everything all away
i wish it all away
not tidied and
– waiting
furtively to explode
out of carefully labelled boxes
but just done and gone…

what remains after
well, can stay i suppose..
whatever it could be i don’t know…
something to remind me
that the house is too small
and space is
always at a premium
choose wisely or
not at all…
because the house of my soul
is much too small



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