An Attic Never Swept

[beekay]

Carefully, we box our memories
And stack them in dark, musty corners
In the attics of our minds.

And, in time, the boxes are layered
With dust, like geologic strata
From each thing that changed our lives.

Often, we attempt to sort them out,
And leave behind the things that hurt us
When we move from stage to stage.

But, we find we cannot touch a box
Without disturbing dust that shields
Us from the raw pain beneath.

And so the boxes accumulate
In that attic which is never swept
And always travels with us.