Twin cobwebs, strung over dead rooms
in which loved ones used to
read novel about death.
The room used to hold volumes of literature,
and the yellow, acrid,
waste of a rug still
remains.
It's the only parcel
of our history that
carries on our memories.
So here we are--
clinging to an empty door frame
where no one else
will ever pass through again,
collecting dust an agelss grime
from objects, times, and places
we once loved.
That is really all we are.














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