THE LONELY DAWN

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.