Mildew collected in the trunk of soul, where memories, like mushrooms, need darkness to thrive. The smell of must sickens me. I lift the lid, warily. A brown-edged picture of a lost self rests at the bottom. I finger scraps of faded wallpaper, withered pressed flowers, excerpted from rooms of sickness and suffering. My chest tightens. I close the lid, quickly. I fasten the lock with Time, walk toward the window light, stretch my neck tall to view today's vibrant lands
|Published in The Longfellow Journal, Volume VIII
© Rose Gotsis
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