There was no sign of him on Friday and as time grows impatient the cupboard of his presence remains bare. Spiders weave webs over raw nerves where each stray draft tugs the signal of a fly. Yet dust of old hope falls on sticky strands that grow brittle and full of gaping holes. Darkness descends and tomorrow it will be time to clean the closet.
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Author:
sorenbarrett (
Offline) - Published: July 30th, 2026 02:27
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
- Users favorite of this poem: nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson)
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Comments2
Good write SB. Yes, I got KP to clean the closet and locked her in there for a while. Well, she kept on about her appearances on TV, radio, in magazines, everywhere! lol.
Beautiful write friend and a fav
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