eleanor martinson

stained glass

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

  • Author: eleanor martinson (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: November 13th, 2022 14:52
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views:
  • User favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek.

Comments1

  • L. B. Mek

    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

    • eleanor martinson

      Thank you, it feels nice to have my work understood



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