Full Empty Boxes  

Her parents lie in boxes, literally, and within the clutter of a scattering mind  
Our home is brimming with the accumulation of their lives  
Packed in cardboard, just waiting to be explored
 
She is overwhelmed by the task of choosing what can't be let go  
Hoarders would know; she doesn't, and weeps about our limited space  
Racked by devotion, with no magical potion  
 
Searching for the value of priceless artifacts, remembering their use  
Memories posted for auction, to be possessed without sentiment  
Paralyzed to inaction, by the act of subtraction  
 
I stumble going toward sleep, uncommon obstacles in my usual path  
A blind person would no longer live here; too much frustration  
I wrap a consoling arm, helpless to mitigate harm  
 
While I work, and continue normality in its unusual form  
I'm sure she screams at unlistening walls, feeling their approach...  
 
Alone with her boxes  
Her full empty boxes