PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Dry, stale air

Swirling in a sunbeam

Glittering lifelike

As if to catch me

As I sit all alone

In an empty room

On the bare wood floor

And listen for the silent knock

There's no one at the door

I feel the first layer of dust upon my soul

My fingers stick together

Like pages of mildew in a book

I can't read the lines of my palms

Drying and cracking

Crying and lacking

And still

As eight spider legs tickle my face

Laying the first strand of web across my soul

I blink my eye

As he anchors a strand on my lashes

He looks to see what moved

Has something in me moved?

Just dust in empty spaces

Cracked wood smiles on mildewed faces

And still

He looks to see what I am

Nothing

Like the empty room

Like the bare wood floor

Like the silent knocking

Of no one at the door