Clutter kills my will to clean,
surrounded, divided, my long lost dreams,
when moving, boxes and stacks I’ve gleaned,
are overhead and toppling.
Buried I’ll be in unfamiliar refuse,
saved and accumulated, what a ruse,
possessions a lie of any valued use,
just things, atop my space.
The air seems to have dissipated,
my obsession with order perhaps over-rated,
and addressing it all I’m far from sated,
this mess I now live in.
Three days it took to put it all there,
how long to placate my personal despair,
amid the chaos of too much fare,
to store in any kitchen.
Three pets to live under one single roof,
growling and standing ground the proof
of whose domain will be the scoop,
of survival in my home.
And all the while we’re tripping and bumping,
isles so narrow between animals crying,
objects and machines and oddities limping,
from boxes bulging and torn.
So every thing must find a place,
within this once ordered and sanctioned space,
now bleeding and open my memories erased,
of what peace and quiet had brought.
I guess this too must pass in time,
and all these things within the lines
of what I expect for life sublime,
and order soon restored.
Or else I’ll begin to lose my mind,
just too much of a good thing, I’ll find,
then drown amid these stacks assigned
to make life so much easier.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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