On moving out of my family home forever

Everything packed
waiting to leave
like the last droplets of blood
of a decaying corpse.
Boxes of books read, reread or unread
clothes long out of fashion
thanks to time's contempt
folded chess boards
remnants of half-baked home work on rickety copy books
rickety vases
strong evidence of adolescence
traces of confusion -- Che Guevara and La Pietà are in the same box
hope and degeneration
uncared for silverware
the emotional labyrinth of photo albums.
I'd like to think they are ants hibernating
waiting to take life elsewhere 
when the spring sun will warm us again.
Will we survive, then, in a new skeleton?

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