The walls have mouths.
They murmur her name in my sleep.
At night, the shadows stretch long
her outline, still clinging
to the doorway like regret.
She left in silence.
But the silence never left.
Each creaking floorboard
a dirge.
Each light switch
a betrayal.
The mirror wont meet my eyes
perhaps it remembers, too.
I pace the halls like a prisoner
in a sentence I never read aloud.
Her perfume still clings to the air
like a ghost in heat.
Even the dust accuses me
settling only where her hands never touched.
There is no peace here.
Only echoes.
Only the thrum of absence
against the ribs of these walls.
She didnt just take her things.
She took the season.
The warmth.
The color from the light.
Ive spoken prayers.
Ive lit candles.
But this house
this house is a tomb dressed as a home.
And I am whats buried.
But not for long.
The door still opens.
The sky still bleeds morning.
And I, a man no longer willing to haunt myself,
will walk out...
Let the house keep her shadow.
I am done being its ghost
-
Author:
Sigmund Gilbert (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 17th, 2025 06:57
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments3
This poem drew me in from start to finish , the tale told is a meandering road that perhaps reflects loss. Not only loss of a person but from memories. The embers fading , we are that which we burry indeed. Many reflections within these lines! A fine piece
A lovely write reflecting on loss, of people and the memories, some lovely lines, nicely expressed and written
The poem progresses from loss and its mourning through burial and the tomb to resurrection and a new day. A lovely process of nature and worded so well with great images in this metaphor. A fave
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