Field Trip (Stories of a Palace)

Ghosts of memories I have never had

press up against me in this place.

I hear the echoes of your footsteps

running up and down the paneled staircase

but I only see your scuffmarks.

I can sense you beaming at your chandeliers in triumph

and weeping over your darkly draped balcony in agony.


Somehow, I feel like we are family.


I want to comfort you as you weep before me

and bring joy back to your daughter's room.

I enter it freely

but I stop, hit by a wall of memories again

none mine.

Your heart has been stitched into a masterpiece

encased in glass before me.




these rooms ache for glory

and signs keep asking me to find it.

There's an address to send it to

and a glass box for my change

in case I can buy it.

"It's all so beautiful," I remark,

"but so sad too."

A seeker comforts me, saying, "That's just the way of things."

But will it always be?


The dollar in the glass box says "No."

This poem is about: 
Our world


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