The scaffolding outside
rattles in the wind,
its joints recollecting
the weight of workers.
On my desk—
a stack of receipts,
ink already fading,
edges curled like tired hands.
The room is empty,
but the residue of voices
still leans against the walls.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 24th, 2025 05:48
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
Offline)
Comments1
There is a loneliness and melancholy feel to this poem as if a hollowness was echoing a distant message from the past.
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