Clutching Handfuls of Past
 

Time seems absolute
Till one clears out the attic
Choked with memories
Captured in a myriad of objects.

There will be joy
In the simple design
Of a pencil bag
Purchased eagerly, an era ago.

There will be pain
At seeing the photograph
Of the beloved
Unapproached.

There will be understanding
In throwing away a lone cigarette
Hidden for a rainy day
Which never came

There will be peace
In seeing all the pieces of your life
Sorted into labeled boxes
For tomorrow