In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Suitcase
Suitcase-Blood
©April 14th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
Pack your suitcase (tattered, but good)
Sling your instrument over your shoulder,
Look around quietly,
Take the measure of things,
And say,
“Bye, then!”
And leave.
The road unfurls before you,
The horizon pearl-pink.
You spend your time
Forgetting your life,
As you walk down, then up that road,
Towards that pale, glimmering
Line between here and there.
And you forget all the way
Down the road to there.
Your suitcase, which held everything,
Starts slipping from your grasp.
When you trip beyond the horizon,
You let it fall open.
Everything spills on the road,
Everything you own, or held dear.
And that lute you held
So close to your heart
Falls from your grasp, too,
And lands, with a crack,
Then splits wide open,
Like a pomegranate, or a heart.
You gasp, and grasp a passing
Thought to keep from drowning,
And say, to the waiting air,
“Perhaps, I don’t want to leave,
After all.
This is my life, still.
It is good. It was good.
It was beautiful.
And so much music
Filled my days.”
And you stop there,
Stand and remember
All the things you forgot.
And your suitcase, still open
Bleeds upon the pavement.
And the lute is mute like a stone.
But you leave, silent and sore,
Without a backward glance.
Somewhere, you hear a string
Twanging.
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Submitting to both The Daily Post, and to NaPoWriMo
