I recently found a house in the mountains, burnt out and abandoned. Resting on a window pane, its tenuous pages teased by the wind, was a partially charred book. The page settled in the breeze. As I took a photo I noticed how tragically ironic the words were.
I had to write a poem about it, of course.
The Book. A poem (Abandoned, part 1)
Resting now, tales upended,
curled from flames at war,
your words not quite as meaningless
as others may have thought.
Each blackened leaf an anecdote
of irony, for naught.
Naked walls surround you;
a Dali canvas, all distraught.
You remain the lost reminder
of all the lonely souls before,
who paced this frame and residence
before the firestorm burned it raw.
For more of my poetry, check out The All or the Nothing, my first book, available at most online book sellers in print or e-book formats.
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