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TIME

By Jo Syz



An ancient attic lies

untouched, save my six paces

across a dead skin carpet,

flowing sun dappled

to the crumbling eaves.

 

A dry moth hangs twisting,

rustled by air drifting

through plaster cracks.

 

The wall’s time scarred blue flowers

reveal faded gold leaf

as tiny sounds in silence

seep inwards;

a minute wing beats

on heat hazed glass.

the drone of bees float

from a shadowed honeycomb,

the sigh of oak settling

in the sun’s shifting light.

 

Golden pools slip

across the wooden floor

which once echoed

your familiar footfall.

 

Yet the moon rises,

white against azure sky,

and glinting dust sparks

will settle

to their natural motion

with my leaving.


© Copyright Dark Poets Club

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