Ceiling Fan

The lazy old wooden fan worked his tired arms twisting ‘round ‘n ‘round Straining against the hot air trying to push the room’s heavy layered heat into motion. The still air resisted hesitated trapped within flat walls Dead air suspended hanging it be as stagnant as were his parting words. Today though he be gone, the slow fan blades of his betrayal still turn ‘round ‘n ‘round, wringing my heart daily His stuttering words of good-bye cutting more deeply with each turn of thought. Now I be nothing but a heavy heat of dead-ed air Holding the broken of my stagnant heart.