There's an old wooden chair by the window
and grains of dust collect upon its seat.
Ghosts of memories gather around the frame,
as it forgets the tender warmth of body heat.
Silence softens the once crowded air,
pushing emptiness into the sun's filtered light.
Echoes of footsteps escape into yesterday,
while human prints dim from time's sight.
The battered floor lies stiff and silent,
left alone by the dying stomp of human feet.
Hollow halls haunt the dead home,
like a graveyard's tomb filled street.
Human voices linger in the empty rooms,
but the physical beings chose to move on.
As specks of dust butter the quiet spaces,
life's reflection refuses to be gone.