A poem for people who make messes and for those who clean them up by Donna Suttl
$ 3.17
Description
A poem for people who make messes and for those who clean them up by Donna Suttl. And to those who walk through the world thinking they owe it nothing—thinking the weight of their carelessness will never find them—be warned. Such acts they forgive, sighing as they clean away the remnants. On offer here is the story of the people who go about their days making messes, unconsciously, accidently, and in some cases, intentionally. AND the often ignored people who spend their lives cleaning up, picking up, putting away, and generally dealing with the debris left in the wake of the messers. If this has any value for you feel free to copy and keep the story and/or the poem: If you feel that the story or poem adds value to your life and you would like to reward me then purchase it. I will send to you a copy, an ordinary typewritten copy, of the words that fall below this entry. The image is not included. Happy reading. Here is the story, and the poem about: The Messes We Leave Behind by Donna Suttle There are those who drift through the world, leaving behind wreckage as easily as footprints in the sand. They drop their burdens carelessly, spill their excesses without thought, and walk away as if their actions have no weight. They never look back. They never wonder who must sweep away the shattered glass, mend the torn fabric, or bury the broken things left in their wake. But there are others—the unseen hands, the quiet keepers of order. They are the ones who come behind, carrying brooms for the dust, mending what can be salvaged, burying what must be forgotten. They are watchers, unseen by the careless. They are guardians of the spaces people use and abandon. And some among them have mastered the art of the curse. These silent keepers know when messes are made in ignorance—when destruction is incidental, the mark of human imperfection. Such acts they forgive, sighing as they clean away the remnants. But sometimes, the mess is excessive. Deliberate. Spiteful. Wasteful beyond necessity. It is then that the curse-givers take action. They do not curse with simple hexes or whispered words. No, their magic is patient, precise. The curse does not strike immediately—it waits. It watches. And then, like a shadow that remembers its source, it follows. A broken promise left in dust? The curse makes sure the careless hand feels its own betrayal tenfold. A home trashed for amusement? The curse ensures the perpetrator never finds comfort again, the walls around them always crumbling, always cold. A life shattered by greed? The curse lingers, weaving misfortune through the air, ensuring that wealth turns to ash, possessions dissolve like mist. And when someone leaves behind a trail of ruin, refusing to learn, refusing to see—then the curse tracks them down like a hunter. It does not merely haunt. It wreaks havoc. One such tale is whispered among the curse-givers—a warning told in hushed voices beneath the moon. There was once a man who never cleaned his own messes. He left broken bottles in the river, scorched fields with careless flames, abandoned debts like forgotten scraps. People suffered beneath his indifference, but he walked away, never touched by consequence. Until, one day, the curse reached him. The ground beneath him turned against his steps, pulling him into thick, sinking mud whenever he tried to run. His water turned bitter, his fires refused to burn warm, his belongings vanished, swallowed by the void. No matter where he went, the ruin he had left behind found him—a reflection of his own disregard, a reckoning made real. For the curse-givers do not act with malice. They simply restore balance. And to those who walk through the world thinking they owe it nothing—thinking the weight of their carelessness will never find them—be warned. Some messes are cleaned. Others linger, taking shape, waiting for the day they are returned to their maker. Waiting to follow. The Curse We Leave Behind They walk the world with careless hands, Footsteps trailing broken strands. They spill, they burn, they tear, they take, Never turning back to wake. The shattered glass, the debts unpaid, The homes left ruined, dark and frayed— They never pause, they never see, The ones who clean their history. For some remain, unseen, unknown, Sweeping dust from paths overgrown, Binding wounds, repairing stone, But knowing ruin is never alone. The curse-givers watch in hush and shade, Keeping tally of what was made. For messes left in malice and spite, Call forth justice in the night. Not all curses strike with speed, Some lie waiting, some take heed. They linger, watching from afar, Tracking the ones who’ve gone too far. A broken promise, a flame untamed, A trail of ruin left unclaimed— They follow, patient, seeking weight, Until the moment calls their fate. Once there was a man who dared, To leave destruction, never care. Fields were scorched, rivers stained, Lies were woven, debts remained. But curses find their rightful prey, And shadowed feet began to stray. The ground beneath him turned to mud, The air grew thick, his fires would flood. His water soured, his walls unmade, His treasures lost, his warmth betrayed. And everywhere he roamed alone, His past returned, his sins were known. For the curse-givers do not hate, They do not burn, they do not bait. They simply weigh what has been done, And bring the ruin back to one. So tread with care upon the land, Lend the world a careful hand. Not all broken things will mend—
