The Burning of Rope

There is a pile of ropes in the corner.
A bit unsightly, but
there is no other place to put them,
these reminders of your bondage,
of a past tied to anchors and walls.

So they sit in a pile, a bit too visible
for your comfort.
Not exactly what you want to serve company
or visitors. Not exactly the decorations
you want to be known for.

But there they are. Ropes, piles of them
do not just disappear
But they can be burnt, one freshly cut
section at a time. Not magic,
just a bit of work at a time,

a bit of self-forgiveness at a time,
a cutting away, a foot here,
a few inches there
and throwing each bit in the fire
to be, finally, consumed.

Not all fire is hell. Fire provides light.
heat, it consumes the ropes in the corner,
one short length at a time.
Until one day, the ropes are gone.
You are free of them. Even the memory of them

will in time, fade.
But for now, they are there.
Tangled reminders of a life
that was once, only partially yours,
and now is something else,

a trophy to your escape
and reclaiming, bit by bit
of the glory that was once was bound
and now,
is set free.

About this poem.

A poem about the scene in the picture. A poem about unwanted messes. A poem about life and the reclaiming of life from the traumas that have bound us for so long. A poem about the small steps to wholeness. Poetry is never about one thing.

The photograph was taken at Mystic Seaport Museum in Mystic, Connecticut.