PANDORA
11.9.20
Trying to find a box or wrapping paper big enough for my soul’s play time. It’s impatient and childish like that. Growing too quickly for its old clothes, curious, and restless. It lets everything hold it, but unsatisfied, it wants nothing to keep it.
I keep fancies like tissue paper for the dampest of moments, pour myself into pulls and yearnings. You can’t ignore that. The pulls, or me.
I come a pundit of instinct, turning more hearts than heads. Try telling Kismet she’s in the wrong room and you’ll be damned to ever find the matching sock again. There’s no denying my presence.
I’m everywhere and always, coming from somewhere, never dropping the anchor. Clip the chains and tie them to a transient place. Drawn by a dream or running from a nightmare, holding down the moment’s wrists but ready to make a break for it if necessary. Figuratively, literally, metaphorically — any way you want to look at it– Keeping a bag packed. Just in case.
It’s that itch. The;
getting what you want, then wanting to want again.