Upholstered

Fine lace fantasies draped over the heart,

while praying they’ll cover

the scars from each knick in life,

constantly looking for an upholster

with a magic leather to shroud

that torn and ratty couch

in one’s mental living room.

It is where the world is watched

as some soap opera reality

and being naked with secrets

is safe, sublime security.

 

But time wears out the illusion,

springs of reality begin to ruin the comfort,

so there comes a time to shop

for a new resting spot from truth.

 

Old cushion mistress tossed aside,

though you can’t forget those intimate hours,

they whisper your vulnerabilities

in echoes that come through the windows,

until yesterday’s seat of casual compliance

remains in the head as a discarded history

from the memories you wish you could abandoned.

 

Yet it lingers on the consciousness’ porch,

ever a souvenir of stagnation

you hope will not be the fate

for your new life

on the furnishing adorned

by a better pattern in thinking.