Older than Jung
Lean inwards, inwards
Rummage around your imagination
The back of the cupboard where you can’t see
But where all the most interesting things
The deeper you get,
Rotten things which crumble in your hands
Hold them reverently, or lose them.
A bat skeleton, tiny, frail, bones like needles
A toy car, flaking paint, tacky orange grease
A tin of crumbly letters
Written in your grandmother’s hand
Newspaper cutouts but why
Index cards of recipes gone by.
Keep going further, if you dare
Something might bite you
Or you might uncover
A mystery covered in tar
A peat moss mummy
An old god, carved
A thing hearkening back to the dawn of humanity
A thing so true it has remained
In the back cabinets of minds for generations
Safe from the light.
You know they are there
Though you try very hard to forget.