These candles speak volumes
Through their endless flickering
That echoes through the empty hallways
of this wooden house.
Sweet memories
Latch onto the wilted petals
Of flowers that were once full of life.
This house is a ruin of forgotten pasts,
And ghosts linger like remnants
Of books that tell a thousand tales.
The wind tangos with the flame of the candle,
Flickering, a production of their interaction.
Behind each floorboard lays a thousand secrets
That dot themselves onto paper
That withers at the edges
As the ink slowly
Slowly
Fades away.
The curtains run miles with their endless movement
I want to run also,
But I cannot move.
I am but a ghost,
That once occupied the space between these four walls.
I fray at the edges,
But really,
I am free.
YOU ARE READING
Starry night skies (completed)
PoetryUnder the canopy of a thousand stars, she found that her hands sang the words of her tender heart, the notes captured perfectly in pages that were stained a deep brown. cocooned in the embrace of a hundred constellations, ...
