In shadows deep, she lingers near,
A spectral sigh, a whispered tear.
Her home now hosts a bustling crowd,
Unruly whispers, laughter loud.
They sift through memories, dust and grime,
Her laughter echoes, lost in time.
Each trinket touched, each picture framed,
To her, it’s all just quite the game.
They rummage through her life, it seems,
While she just floats on silent dreams.
“Take what you want,” she thinks with glee,
“None of it matters, you can’t take me.”
In corners dark, she rolls her eyes,
At all the fuss, the mundane lies.
“Enjoy my things, but not my soul,
For I’m beyond this earthly role.”
With one last glance, she drifts away,
No longer part of this charade.
A ghostly grin, she’s finally free,
While they just squabble over her keys.
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Author:
Angela (
Offline) - Published: August 1st, 2024 00:48
- Comment from author about the poem: I would like to think that I would be spry even in death
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
Offline)
Comments1
Things do not make us. A great write with a message that people need to hear. We are far lighter without possessions.
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