Sometimes when I walk into a room it feels like someone was just there,
it’s like their departure echoes the room.
I wonder if houses ever miss their dwellers.
Sometimes when I trek across track,
I can see the weeds of an old plant,
like the arms of a child reaching out to a long lost parent.
I wonder if paths ever feel guilty for being made.
Sometimes when I see a deflated ball,
it looks like the hope was sucked out of it.
I wonder if the air that was in the ball is enjoying its freedom.
it’s like their departure echoes the room.
I wonder if houses ever miss their dwellers.
Sometimes when I trek across track,
I can see the weeds of an old plant,
like the arms of a child reaching out to a long lost parent.
I wonder if paths ever feel guilty for being made.
Sometimes when I see a deflated ball,
it looks like the hope was sucked out of it.
I wonder if the air that was in the ball is enjoying its freedom.
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.