Clutter

A funnel of face wash

and bisected bottles

of balms and butter.

Within crabbed cellophane

and an old book, half read

torn into tales.

Between those lies a protocol

unfinished and undone

and theories of velocity

in motion not gaining momentum

What a mess, life has become

a rigid ritual put down as a pact on paper

between thousand threads

trailing along time and the Almighty

We are nothing more than

those containers and cartons,

waiting to be cast away like clutter

into a casket christened in our name.