Decluttering  once again.

Out with the auld lang syne.

etc.

Should old acquaintance be forgot,

And never come to mind.

Then, out of sight, out of time.

Planning for the end.

The past can be a bind.

The present, in a moment, is nought.

It flashes briefly, then dies.

Un pot de feu,

Circled by moths,

Trying to reach the moon,

But, then get distracted by lamp posts,

Or anything bright.

Even moths know when it’s time

To shake off their pasts,

And begin anew.

Though it’s painful to become what one is,

Shaking off the shackles that tie us.

They are the ties that bind

Us to what is finished.