Threadbare

“Emptiness is an abyss in the light of possibility”_by poet She sinks into her threadbare cushion on the age-old rocker she huddles in daily placing her thin-skinned arms cold to the touch upon the arm rail darkened from the oil of her skin Creaks and moans play a tedious rhythmic song of loosed screws holding the oak rockers that roll over the rutted floor back and forth her feet pushing off an unkempt floor drifting into her thoughtless doom It is an everyday sound to her ears She does not notice its rhythm Or the sounds of the day that surround She waits for something day after long day season to season . . . year after year Watching out the window facing the street Where people carry on with life her eyes meet unknown faces that she greets without words when her heart stops listening to the silence And in that solitary confinement within her self imposed throne the songbird has lost its song the sun has faded in its warmth she sits in a cathedral without god She has fled with each lonely night in the darkness that swallowed her dreams to awaken to one more day at the same window She has forgotten the sound of her name with no one to answer