My Museum by Val Booler

There are two doors into my museum:
one leads to hope, anticipation, memories
of crisp days, snow on the hills,
the curtain up at the theatre,
the sense that the best is yet to come.

The other creaks open to the chill
of hopes dashed, disappointment, despair.
It wasn’t meant to be this way:
an empty cot, the poem unwritten,
a friendship lost, a life not filled.

There are two doors into my museum:
one marked ‘For Public Use Only.’
That room has masks with suitable faces,
smiles, laughter, love, delight,
colours and rainbows from sunshine spills.

The other has a door saying ‘Private,’
a party which never quite started.
Deflated balloons, cobwebs on candles,
a mouse of regret nibbling mouldy cake,
the acid taste in glasses half-full.

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