Sadness follows him

Through empty rooms,

Remnants of a life that could have been.

 

The voices in the walls

Cry out with the truth that crawls inside them

Slimy tendrils that reach out

To wrap around his heart.

 

They are invisible,

But noisy.

He denies them

But they speak anyway.

 

Of pain, of hurt, of demands

Yet he goes

Looking for solace

In the place where he gave none.

 

The hole in the roof

Lets the light in,

And the rain.

Creatures of the night

Roam unimpeded.

 

Yet by day,

He searches.

The life he wanted,

Echoing through the empty rooms.

 

By Deborah E. Dayen

Picture from Shutterstock via Google Images