Grey Ghosts
I tiptoe through empty rooms,
lest my footsteps evoke his presence.
I gaze at cracked linoleum,
still bearing marks
worn into it by the old table legs.
Mother's face floats through
the smoky windowpane,
her sorrowful eyes pleading.
Neil stares downward
at the uneaten food
congealed on his plate.
Sarah's face is buried
in a limp rag doll,
clutched to her breast.
I glance down the hall,
past the bedroom.
I will not go in there.
No need to visit old pain.
I turn my back
to the silent, cold house
and walk away from my past.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
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