He awakes to early morning sunshine

Casting silhouettes of tangled branches

Along his bedroom wall, swaying in

An unfelt wind, they seem to nod

At him, or perhaps they grope for

Cobwebs unattended to in the farthest

Corner from which he lay.

I am older now he thinks but it

Is a hollow thing, with no real

Meaning behind it, still it echoes

There where such thoughts linger

When a person grows accustomed

To rooms without voices, a place

He doesn’t know he remembers.

A slight frown helps him to forget

That he remembers, a skill learned

Years before now honed to perfection,

He wears it often, comfortable as a pair

Of ragged old shoes it seems most at

Home in the lines that creases his brow

And the down-turned corners of his mouth.

Like his thoughts, it seems to linger there.

END

“Where Such Thoughts Linger”