A box of puzzle magazines
And half are half filled in,
And tapes, cassette and VHS,
And knick-knacks in a tin,
And all the books I haven't read,
And can't get to before I'm dead.

And all the toys that in my youth
Could gladly fascinate me,
Now lurk in darkness in the stacks
Of boxes that await me.
Sad looming thing that I've become;
What gave me joy now leaves me numb.

I look at all the weighty things
That bow my sturdy shelf,
What is the worth, to thus erect
Museums to myself?
It bears the stink of vanity;
And more when no-one come to see.

I cannot longer bear the weight
That yesterday bequeathed me,
The life that I could live, [i]au fait,[/i]
Calls from the ground beneath me.
Step out, away, and none too soon!
Like butterfly from a cocoon
I shed the clutter all astrewn,
And let fresh air bewreath me.