Leftovers

These leftovers wandering around my soul

not mine not yours

them, I can't stow or throw 

the remnant broken pieces

the grit and the grime,

the solid and the gross

Camouflaged in my skies some days, 

they hang, which I wake up to

some old music, our inane poems

those broken hummings, I stumble upon. 

Like old teddy bears 

I've held them for long

but now, they linger like ghosts

and waste my space. 

A geometric void is all I need

to pile these fragments up

beyond the walls of my soul,

shut my doors on them

for one last time, and

not get knocked ever again

 

Or a deep black hole 

that eats them off

Or a scorching pyre 

that cinder them down

to ashes, which from  

shall rise no phoenix evermore 

Perhaps I'd find then, quietude 

Perhaps then I'd dare

to unbolt the curtained windows

of my soul again.