The past is merely wool; used to burnish…
For persons, themselves, to substance furnish.
To shine bright bold brass against recesses.
The surface dance; twixt dives & abscesses.
What sticks when the eyes flash over sight’s host?
It’s a balance held by what lingers most.
Working to understand the past is sage.
Unexamined trauma exacts a wage.
All my life one hand clutched cloth & polish…
To bring out the shine of being demolished.

