Dream Poem 23:  Boxes

The stressful running around
The arguments
The fallout
The accusations
In each room a small pile of boxes
What’s in the boxes?

Nothing it’s just baggage
Yet I unsuccessfully spend my energy
Rushing from one place to the next
Pointlessly checking the boxes
Until its time to go
And I’m planning on taking all the boxes – that containing nothing
With me

Why am I doing this meaningless act?
Why am I carrying the boxes around with me?
I Know. 
I will burn the boxes instead of dragging them around.
I will incinerate and annihilate them.

Here I am again in the dream.
I carefully collect the stacks of boxes from each room.
I pile them up in the courtyard and with kindling, matches and newspaper I begin a fire.
It catches and leaps up with Pentecostal zeal

There is a pit of anxiety in my stomach
Its tight like a fist until
The word ‘Pentecost’ arrives.
And now it unclenches and I remember to breathe
And I see that it has been tight
I’ve been holding my breath while the matches lit.

And its ok
It’s going to be ok
I didn’t need to look in the boxes
They were empty
They burn merrily and fast and hot
Red cubes
White cubes
Black char
Ash
Blown off now – gone - -phew

Well done my good and faithful servant
You have been trusted with small things
Now I will trust you with more.


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