Clutter

I hasten to clean the room.

It’s time to rid the room of clutter,
in and around doorways, that unnecessary
emotional burden that shares the past.
Time is short--the sun receding
winter awaits with makeshift whims.
I am spent shells
beneath each hazardous step;
I am summoned by an urgency
as room is poor fellow closing in--
I pivot among the chaff and shard of
indiscriminate litter.
This untidiness is malignant parasite
and quick is the need for clean.
In my mind I run
with arms outstretched
pleading Father, Son, Holy Ghost
yet that remains makeshift murkiness;
I am my own cross in my own private thresh.
I am my own battlefield
with time eager for unstable precipice.
The quarry remains within,
and thus I hasten like flaming chariots
this imperative albeit
onerous chore.


24 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
9-19-15