Each time I wake in this vast museum
I’m gobsmacked, amazed, dazed and driven
to choose from the endless aisles of artifacts.
Curator once again of a life.
Arranged by time, the room that I am
currently born to is rife with beauties,
full of action, only a fraction
of which I can use, can choose.
Ships for relations, buildings to decorate,
lovely prizes of music and art,
and climate and context and sadness and passion
to walk this road through time.
As babies we wake here and gape overwhelmed,
grabbing by handfuls what twinkles and shines,
eyes fixed shortsighted on glamour or show,
disarmed by confusion and mute.
Toddlers at least have themes or memes
to cloak with experience, dress with time,
artifacts suited to sort out futures,
stories that tell your direction
Each new day brings a golden perspective
gained from the diorama you built
from the last room you woke in, focus bespoken
by treasures as far as the eye could see.
Not that it matters. Every artifact
gives up its history, enhances your story,
fills your exhibit with lessons of value
your thirsty soul rolls into wisdom.
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