A room
neither silent
nor full.
Something clicks,
not a clock,
not a memory.
Perhaps a reminder
Of unfinished work.
Shadows ready
For busy hands.
He stays still.
His breath shallow,
Not waiting.
Not moving.
Not knowing.
In the next room,
a window opens
by itself.
Outside,
a blurred line
sharpens into light
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Author:
Dasim (
Offline) - Published: May 14th, 2025 22:35
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Licence, Damaso
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Comments1
If metaphoric as I guess that window with light is an inspiration. Nicely written.
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