I walk through the spiraling halls
books line every wall
the store smells of old furniture
it draws me in
I pull several off the shelf
1984, a collection of vintage comics
each piece of writing feels like a gift
I find myself driving back
to my grandparent's house
I sit in the attic, silence engulfs me
the only light protrudes from an old lamp in the corner
stained glass, shattered, paints the room a dim yellow
the house is quiet
but the noise of my grandfather
flipping pages of a novel downstairs
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Author:
eleanor martinson (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 13th, 2022 14:52
- Category: Unclassified
- Views:
- User favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek.
Offline)
Comments1
scary how alike we become
to those we cherish...
there is patience in your writing
unhurried and never questing
your write like you pick-up syllables
from the dirt beneath you
and the stars, twinkling at your creativity's midnight
there is grace, in simplicity's refined clarity..
thanks for sharing dear poet
Thank you, it feels nice to have my work understood
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