The crushing weight of a pen resting idly.
The paper decaying, slowly drained by time.
These strings are quiet, gnawed by creeping rust.
Words of the wise restlessly flail in closed books.
Old yellow light paints the wall
The falling dust does not stir.
The unbroken spell of silence
where once a sound so warm echoed in air.
Nothing more left to write.
Old drawings of the past, moments locked in amber
fade away on yellowing paper.
No presence, no soul, no vibration.
The memories glow in the fading sunshine.
Movements, places, moments, words...
And as night falls, something moves.
The pen is lifted, the page is turned.
No comments:
Post a Comment