The open hand
Of solitude mourns
Its fingers grasping
To a lonely dawn
Empty rooms
No footsteps fall
No laughter
None to call.
A wall clock
In measured time
Moves its limbs
No longer chimes
Its yellowed face
Collecting dust
Its date forgotten
No more is fussed.
Idle passing
Days collapsed
Into weeks
Months to lapse
Bitter years
Like books on shelf
Destruction deep
Within oneself.
-
Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: December 28th, 2025 03:41
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 20
Offline)
Comments3
Solitude magnified by time leaves a sad and mournful feel to this poem. It seems to be a portent of gloom and is dark in its feel. Well done
thanking you as always appreciated
You are most welcome
It's no joke people being on one's own for too long - can stretch into months and years even. Good write N.
Meanwhile - Cooeeeee!!! I popped in, not leaving you lonely. 'Oh no, not you again!' you reply? 'shattering my peace, my silence, my solace'. lol. I turned up like a bad.....smell. lol.
not at all, I enjoy our laughs and jokes
Do you know Dawn? Is she lonely?! lol.
Ive known a few Dawns from midnight to dawn lol
I knew a Sally but she wasn't lonely! lol. (random name chosen there). You know Bill Stickers? Why they gonna prosecute him? What's he done? lol (a terribly old joke that).
LOL, the old ones are sometimes the best
This was perfectly rhymed all the way through. I didnt want it to end. Lol. Great job.
as always much appreciated and many thanks
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