image from nationalpost.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The attic hums with ghosts of feet, a trail of soft, lost whispers so sweet The wallpaper peels like ancient skin, revealing maps where time has been. A teacup left in midnight’s grip, still waiting—as if just from the lip of someone who turned out the light and stepped into the sheer of night. The floorboards creak a coded name, the dust conspires to hide the blame. No clock ticks here, yet shadows climb the stairs, in sync with stolen time. And if you listen—really strain~ you’ll hear the house breathe once again: a sigh that bends the candle’s glow toward the door left long ago. Some say it’s wind. I know it’s more. The latch still waits. The hinge still mourns. a related memoir vignette can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/the_stranger_in_the_box_13607
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
