A stack of half empty boxes
In a half filled room.
I see
An old broken torch,
A torn film poster lies crumpled
Yellowed and well loved.
Books you won’t need again.
What will you leave?
What stays behind when you
Pack the last of your life
Into the boxes and tape them shut?
Is there a box big enough
To fit who you were inside?
Later, all we can think t do
Is to look at what you’ve left,
To tear open some of your boxes
To try and unpack you back together.
But we can’t.
We see only what’s here
And can tell who you aren’t or
Who you were, but not
Who you are.
That
Is all you took with you.
