The lights have long since burned out;
their fixtures cracking and decayed.
The plaster falls in small, fragile pieces;
the heavy beams have begun to rot.
The scarlet paint has worn away,
the floor assuming a treacherous sag.
Visitors come and, seeing the ruin
turn and go. If only they knew
that I am still here.
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Author:
Fränz Müller (
Offline) - Published: June 6th, 2025 10:01
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Licence, Damaso, Priya Tomar
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Comments2
Great metaphor of a relationship gone past decay to rot and still one remains just as the parts of the house still remains. Whether memories or attempts to hang on they continue hang on. Very well done
Thank you!
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