Sitting In Silence
No edifice harbors more profound silence than this,
Each door creaks with a mournful cadence as if bearing the weight of years.
The stairs emit a plaintive screech, echoing the passage of time.
All that once flourished now lies entombed in layers of dust,
Save for the painting adorning the whitewashed living room wall,
And the old man, ensconced in his wheelchair, who still blinks, albeit infrequently.
He departed this realm years ago,
Yet someone else had forsaken him first,
The woman in the painting, her smile haunting, her beauty transcendent,
Her essence seeping from canvas to soul, ensnaring his gaze.
He waits, as he promised he would,
Pondering if perchance his warranty has been extended,
Or if Heaven reserves his solitary existence as a form of penance.
Now he resides within the painting,
His prolonged stare transmuting into a serene smile,
For he is seated beside the woman on the wall,
Enraptured by a dream, hypnotized by her presence,
No longer shedding tears for a love lost.
I presumed him long departed, as we all moved forward with life,
How ironic is death, and the remnants it leaves behind.
As I removed the painting, I watched his eyes glaze over,
What a price to pay for a lifelong devotion.
If this act seals his fate,
Then, with a smash to the ground, I slain his love again.
Copyright © Abigail Cole | Year Posted 2024
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