Sorting

It feels as if my mind is sorting
through drawers of memories,
and racks of distant days, which
hang, in darkened places where
doors no longer close properly,
and keys, hang, perilously in
rusted, broken locks, waiting for
that moment when the last, slow
breath will bring them all down;
a crumbling into the eternal now,
where form cannot be folded, or
stored, and there is nothing which
can be neatly hung, or kept hidden;
as the pungent camphor of hope,
dissolves in deliquescent grace.