wreckage

Every space has been lived in at some point or another, I think.
Look closely at your feet as you make your way down the road.
The hands of former travellers grasping desperately for your shadow
Embrace them.
Feel a weary exhale on the back of your neck
Let it pass through you.

You have reached your destination.
Once a home. Just a house these days.
Approach the table in the centre of its solitary room.
There is a deck of cards on the table, my gift for you.
Look. Don’t touch.
Reach into your pocket, what do you find?
It is a small statue of a baby (not yours)
Leave it on the table.
A surprise for the next soul drifting through your trodden path.