Breaths discreet as feet
soft along the plush carpet floor
of the new home.
Floorboards underneath taut and young
nailed together so confidently.
Not given a chance to age gracefully.
These floors won’t creak and groan until we are long gone.
The bones old and achy.
Until then these sterile details clue us in.
The unknown reaches hidden therein,
The house could be part of a home
the home can never be part of the house
which stands in line, row upon row
shoulder to shoulder with all of it’s twins.
-
Author:
Luke Bensing (
Offline) - Published: August 8th, 2025 21:02
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
Offline)
Comments1
The shell does not equal what it contains. A lovely poem of something intangible.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.