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Deja Whitten Poem
Waiting.
On what can only be described
As hopes and dreams
For someone once told
To hope and dream.
Here lies my past,
Settling in,
With the dust that lines
the windows and the floorboards
Of a house that remembers it all.
The musky aroma dwells in my nostrils,
While the promise of roses
Taps on my window.
With a broom in my palm,
I sweep,
And I sweep,
Waiting.
Copyright © Deja Whitten | Year Posted 2026
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