Another presence
is marked by eerie groans
that make one inclined to blow a kiss
towards those burdened door hinges.
Shelves line a far wall
and are themselves lined
with silent faces;
reminders, remarks and renditions
their static colors,
time's wrinkle is dusted over
the room like spiders webs
swaying in a wandering draft.
A mirror stained by wavering flame
offers a shy peak into the stories
adorning the other side of Nora's
jumbled abode...
home and escape embodied
under the same flickering lamp.
3 weeks ago
2 comments:
Do you win many contest?
“time’s wrinkle is dusted...” – what a fabulous image!
This a lovely poem, Sarah.
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