There are many worlds in here,
Said my aunt,
Pleasantly discoursing with another wilted flower.
I sat to her right,
In a high backed mahogany chair,
My own world,
In between.

That was the living room,
Where ancient pictures hung precariously on the walls.
Without a speck of dust,
Such well polished memories.

One room over,
Not so different in appearance,
But altered by the energy,
Of kids spinning and jumping.
Pure life and focus, where does it go?

Snippets of song drift out,
But my ears are squinting,
And somewhere along the way,
Meaning disappears.

So here I sit again,
On the cusp of two lands,
Seeing both, yet unable to commit.
Wanting to, and yet afraid,
To lose both the pain and clarity of sight.