The Museum of Past Selves

The title of this piece was the prompt for this poem.

In a forgotten corner of an old room
there’s a version of me that sits,
still and dusty,
like an ancient relic from a long ago era,
as if on display in a museum
of the history of me;
there’s no placard of information near my frozen form
no facts of interests
no notes of success nor failure
and to the mere passerby
my form is but a painting on a wall
like an exhibit that carries only a modicum of interest
sensed perhaps, possibly acknowledged,
but not seen
and certainly unknown

But I know that person there
that other me
is defunct
and her story
one of stunted growth
dreams evaporated
desires unsatiated
lives in the past
and like the marker of any good artifact of history
It reminds me of what I was
and where I now need to go:
forward, forging a new story
so that one day,
when even this new self is ancient
and it too is stored away
in the forgotten corner of an old room
passersby will stop and gaze upon that version of me
still and dusty
but they will know
that once,
I was magnificent