Drinking Under the Moon

"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Home

I wander through this cold shell that used to be a box of memories.

Now only a space, full of the mist of past things.

The rooms seem to dribble shadow, as if in mourning,

a veil of loss as the building exhales in its emptiness.

 

A flimsy layer of dust begins to ooze through the liminal expanse.

This place between things. Not outside, but no longer an inside.

A home now in a twilight as its beating heart has left.

A skeleton of something that was.

 

 

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This entry was posted on June 8, 2014 by in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , .
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