Soulless, produced in millions
Only to serve us, be used, replaced and forgotten
In the mad flurry of subsequent millions –
Things are clever. Very clever.
Knifes, for instance.
Sharp, spotless steel shining in the sun.
Well-formed handles, wooden or plastic,
After all this is not of the essence.
Or pillows, ordinary headrests, coloured as you wish.
Feather-stuffed, comfy, alluring –
So many times as close to us as we were to each other!
It was a grave mistake to let them in on our secrets.
Then, not necessarily in this order, books
And shelves for them, flowerpots, tables,
Paintings on every wall, shoes, half-burned candles –
Day by day sly things collected our promises, whispers, smells.
They are not just things any more.
They took on the shape of our joys. I know them now
For what they really are – a deadpan horde of furious wolves.
They all laid in wait. They all lied.
Our things took us for a very long ride.
I’ll put them up for sale. What do you think? I’ll sell them all,
One by one or in a bulk to strangers who do not keep in mind
Moments we do. I will go out and buy everything new, the whole gear.
We’ll see who’s on the ball yet.