dirty

He bares bashful bones in a closet, inconspicuous to sunlight.
Dusting off the edges of his oak shelves, casting the cobwebs and arachnids into darkness.
Longing for one day, when no others will be as usual: a return to a life once lush.
Fearing his time will be spent running in circles, chasing a dream that could never begin in the first place.
Hoping to emerge from the shadowy musk that is his own geography.