I sometimes feel
Evening shadows call
My mind away
To distant halls
That dwell within
An inbetween
Of what is dream
And what is real.
A dusty book
Upon a shelf
A forgotten room
Within itself
The smell of ink
The tainted page
Invisible hands
That left their stain.
An empty house
With corridors long
Faraway footsteps
A womans song
Float idle in
A dreamy air
Was it real
Or was I there ?
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: August 20th, 2026 01:58
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 28
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments4
Yes, some dusty books, maybe from second-hand shops - makes my eyes sting sometimes when reading them.
I thought your book might turn dusty, waiting at that bus stop reading it. lol.
You pick up a lot of dust at bus stop from passing traffic just no buses lol
I love these old books that hold the dusty memory of the hands that turned their pages...
Totally agree, you can feel the vibes
So interesting Norman I had such a dream day before yesterday and was trying to put it to words with ill effect yesterday and today you write one of the same topic. Nicely worded yours tells that dreamlike feel of not know what is real and what is dream. Nicely done my friend and a fave
Most kind my friend, thanks and appreciation as always, my apologies for jumping in first, I am sure you have your poem on the backburner so to speak
You are most welcome Norman no temporarily stumped as to how to word it properly it sits in the workshop unattended.
It will happen when least expected
What an atmospheric piece, Norman. The forgotten volume, empty corridors, distant movement, and half-heard voice create a world where memory and haunting become indistinguishable. This is beautifully gothic, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
most kind my friend, thanks and appreciation
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