Secret Truths

There is no new furniture here.
Everything is old,
If not an antique,
it is bordering on it,
the years immediately showing
in the expanses of richly patinaed wood,
or the proportions, both perfect
and dated, not of this time and world.

It is the scars I treasure,
the marks of survival, indentations
that tell secret stories,
that whisper their continuity
from a world long past
towards I world I will never see.

Visitors, when they drift into my walls,
rarely see the scars.
That is the lesson I have had to learn for myself,
that while they seem so wonderfully evident to me,
others rarely see them,
They are blinded by a quick glance,
taking in the whole and seeing only
the beauty.

No matter.
It is enough that I know them,
know the secrets of their imperfections,
which are less about imperfection itself,
than their mystery,
their untold stories,
their secret truth.

About this poem 

Nope not about furniture. All about people.

I could not make up my mind whether this was meant to be a prose essay or a poem. Obviously poetry won out.

The picture was taken this morning. It is of my desk where I write.

Tom