Open Letter To Myself
The passing is of your own making my friend,
The unanswered letters
The lost and twice changed addresses,
The visits that time always managed to excuse,
The leftovers from a feast of memories scattered on a paper plate
While the guests that never came, stand on a faraway doorstep
Begging the door to open.
It’s hard to take the stitches from a tapestry and leave no shadow,
Harder still, on cloth so rotten, to use fresh thread.
Bleach and starch and bold brushed colour shall take me now,
No overlay but a single stroke,
Unbroken and easy
On the ticker tape of tomorrow’s yesterdays.