The Chest

The Chest

If I don’t regularly write,

my mind becomes

an ungodly sight�"

twisting,

creaking,

in rhythm

with a dusty chest

tucked somewhere

on a high, forgotten shelf,

waiting

for repair.

But maybe

it’s not the chest

that’s broken.

Maybe

it’s what’s inside�"

the jumbled pieces

needing to be smoothed,

ironed out,

made to rest

alongside the elements

they’ve long rebelled against.

Somewhere,

deep in the folds

of my DNA,

they stir.

Old thoughts,

old pains,

old truths�"

still alive,

still asking

to be written.