Depositories

some homes have no closets. everything is piled upon the furniture or floors.
tossed and scattered, old mixing with new and no boundaries or labels as to whom it belongs.
chaotic seasonings, where things can be hidden in plain sight.

some hearts are rife with hundreds of tiny closet doors, like the tiny shutters
on rocks in Costa Rica, night-time bugs shut quickly so as not to be eaten.
a play space, a safe space, a dark prison. the silent walls are indifferent to one’s plight.

depositories of memories, secrets, kind or evil, but ever our own. forming our world
or at least our perception of it. go back and sweep the detritus clean. scrub the walls.
what once was can never be reclaimed. plant new seeds in the fertile soil of today.