Baggage-Laden Life
I.
Across recent years the luggage swells
like a living creature,
handles sprouting extra limbs,
zippers breathing in and out as if digesting the dreams we feed it.
People wander America’s trembling nights carrying suitcases full of floating cities,
mirrors that show their perfected selves,
whole galaxies of “might have been” orbiting behind their eyes.
The bags grow heavier as the fantasies multiply,
each hope a small glowing fish that wriggles deeper
into the mind’s rcepticle and refuses to be released.
II.
More visions crowd in:
mansions with staircases spiraling to nowhere,
bodies made of polished glass that never crack,
islands drifting toward us on warm currents of imagined rescue.
We dream of sudden fame arriving like a silver moth at the window,
of voices praising us in rooms we’ve never walked through,
of lives that shine with impossible light.
Each wish becomes another stone gently turning with promise,
until the mind becomes a backpack stuffed with vibrating, unreal futures
that thump against the ribs with every exhausted step.
III.
Yet a few wanderers stop in the quiet fog between dreams
and let the cargo fall open.
Out spill the illusions,
bright birds made of smoke,
castles that fold into paper squares,
oceans no larger than a teacup.
They watch them vanish,
and in the slow return to waking
they discover the soft warmth
of the life already in their hands:
the cracked mug,
the honest breath,
the steady earth beneath bare feet.
Moving forward lightly,
the fortunate notice the mousetrap gleaming,
its cheese haloed like a tiny sun.
But knowing how dreams can snare,
they circle wide,
choosing the simple path where wants whisper,
and needs speak clearly choosing the path where hands stay empty
so the heart can stay light.
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I believe you are describing the battle between your ambition and the reality as you age and all of these dreams became harder and harder to fulfill.
Ron