Those relics of the past you excavate,
Brought to the fore,
By brush and pick,
Sweat and appliance,
From that dig site in your heart,
A quarry of harsh truths,

Forget them,

The scars upon your brow,
Every cigarette burn and police report,
The words still anchored in your flesh,
They’re not fit for a museum,
Not deserving of conservation,
No glass cabinet will contain them,

Forsake them,

They are not precious mementos,
Tokens of a past age,
My friend,
Shatter them with a hammer,
They merit a morgue,
Not a podium.

  1. Well penned. Yes, to letting go of the past dug up to preserve sorrow:
    “They merit a morgue,
    Not a podium.”

    – bravo!!!

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