Things in the Mirror

Somehow, when you look back,
it all looks so distant,
historical, a thing pressed neatly
into a book, all wrapped up

and having none of the messiness
of real life, luring you
into a sense of false security,
as if the past had no power

until, like a ghost with claws,
it climbs out of it’s coffin
to remind you that some things never die,
they are only caged.

About this poem

The past is not important. The past never dies. Somehow, both are true. We can overcome our mistakes. We can move past our tragedies. We can triumph over our failures.

But underneath, something still lurks, silent and hungry.

The picture? It was taken by my son on the way home to Vermont this weekend. I told him to snap it and promised him I would write a poem around it. And this, dear readers is it.

Tom