These casings we are in:
The book jackets to our complex souls.
We move in them every day
The rituals of cleansing,
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:
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
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?
(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
Or another piece of trash in the landfill
©Vixen Lea 2020
2 thoughts on “These casings we are in”
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