On turning 40
Half my life spent in a retail box,
the other half searching for a way out.
Half my life spent praying to nothing,
the other half disbelieving myself.
I carry this collection of failures
like a Fibonacci snail shell,
a haunted home for past voices
most of them my own,
a drowning whisper of ocean
in this isolation chamber mind.
So much time spent rebuilding
that which doesn’t exist,
this idea of the human heart
like a fragile tinderbox
where the secrets are kept.
What am I but I leaking vessel?
What is this but an education
without end? It’s never in sight
though I convince myself otherwise,
feel the pendulum shift
as I step over the fulcrum
of this metaphysical seesaw.
I’m moving easier now,
picking up speed,
with this weight on my shoulders
carrying me faster forward.