These casings we are in:
The book jackets to our complex souls.
We move in them every day
The rituals of cleansing, 
feeding, 
flushing 
form habitual ruts
 
These casings we are so used to 
toting on our backs 
that we hardly notice when, 
like a favorite boot, 
the stitching has frayed, 
and the sole is worn through.
 
We take them for granted 
when they are well-oiled and running smoothly
But are so often shocked 
when we catch glimpses of them in a 
passing mirror sliver:
who is 
that old lady? 
that angry woman? 
that overly painted clown? 
 
That cannot be me.
 
The daily aches are our background music
and we don’t remember when they began
 
yet
the lines get deeper
the bags get fuller
the silver spreads
joints swell…backs slump…bellies sag
 
These casings are wearing thin
 
Are they worn ON US or made OF US?
Will WE, 
(the parts that notice and forget) 
grow thin with them?
Or will we be set free: an essence unencumbered?
 
 
That favorite boot is reluctantly discarded with a sigh;
To be a nest for mice
A flowerpot
Or another piece of trash in the landfill
 



©Vixen Lea 2020