Every day I write a line on a sheet of paper,
and put it up on my wall.
white scales with tangles of black moss,
thick like fur and with plenty of space
between the layers
for dust and insects to collect,
just to let me know that clinging
on to old things
results in an unpleasant experience every time.
So if I can, I leave the lines alone –
there to look at in times of desperation
but never to be touched.
The lines aren’t pretty.
They aren’t ugly, either.
They’re simply of people and worlds and war;
not the kind of war with armies,
the kind where self fights self,
sometimes using small words for big problems
and giant words for little problems.
Because who can say when a problem
is big or little
when it lurks solely in the mind?