The thing is, it is less baggage than bonds,
personal prisons that hold you,
ancient ropes tied too often by others
leaving us bound. Unable.
Left without a knife or compatriots to cut ourselves loose,
we shrivel. We waste away.
The fat on us is lost, and we are living skeletons
left to die.
But we do not. You do not.
As you become less, the ropes fall loose.
And the part of you that is less, yet more,
The bones poke out.
You are all lines and angles
and the ropes leave their mark.
The rawness never leaves
and you are unrecognizable to those that look
no further than skin.
About this poem
A poem, though it is not readily recognizable as such, that is a love poem to my wife, who is one of the few.
The picture of the ropes was taken at Mystic Seaport, CT.