Drafts

 

There’s a cold wind blowing through this house;

Rattling weary bones and dusty shelves.

Pages fall from stacks of yellowed memories

And they all ask politely: will you read?

 

Will you read of me?

 

Will you hear what we have to say

About these bones in this stifled rocking chair,

And the faded photographs his hands bear?

 

And if your name happens to have bled onto a page or two,

what might you think, of this One

Who’s been waiting for you?  

What might you think of these tattered words

Each, perhaps, meant in some way for you?

 

Would you laugh and set fire to these relics, 

Or would you long for flesh from these old bones?

Would you burn down this cold, haunted house- 

Dared not called a Home

Or would you dream as, once, these bones did of you?  

Reviews

[Catlen]

Wonderful poem, A.J! Thanks for sharing!