The power of things

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.