I walk around a house full of eroding day-to-days.
Bumping around but not moving a thing
I trip and fall down a staircase but no one hears me scream
Crawling, groping around in the mountains of ephemeral reminders of who once lived here.
Someone with talent, schooling, and ambition.
Someone with heart, industry, and strength.
As I meander about there is a feeling of loss.
Every day one more unread book crumbles to dust.
Yet every time I pass by the great oil painting in the hall.
It makes me shudder to see my shadow perfectly lining up.
K.B. Silver
About the Creator
K.B. Silver
K.B. Silver has poems published in magazine Wishbone Words, and lit journals: Sheepshead Review, New Note Poetry, Twisted Vine, Avant Appa[achia, Plants and Poetry, recordings in Stanza Cannon, and pieces in Wingless Dreamer anthologies.
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