No one comes here.

 

No one comes here.

A sun rises each day

between the faded drapes.

And dust sparkles in the air,

There’s no gravity,

in this choked cell, 

it is silent and stale.

Clocks go back and forth,

listening for something 

beyond the bites of time.

Carpets flattened by the

footsteps on the moon.

Passengers on upper decks

stare upon the stagnancy.

There’s a sickly sort of comfort, 

they breathe out as the wheels turn.

 

Mother’s things have watched

in cumulated shock, unending

nothings from their mantel shelf.

‘She’d have hated this,’ they say

in hushed whispers, resigned.

Wait until the dust settles.

Layers and layers of it,

homogenous and stifling.

And now nothing could move

inside this frozen pond.

Thick ice distorts the outside world.

There is only the comfort 

of endless static reflections. 

A hall of soured mirrors.

 

And it’s too late now,

a visitor would only shock

the portraits from the wall.

Cause the vases to jolt

in bashfulness, to crack.

Send the dustmites 

scurrying in terror. 

The seasons are enough.

Outside the filmy windows 

change is constant and cruel.

Don’t let it in, no wind

shall stir this universe. 

And nothing can leave,

except for when the little lamp 

shines for days on end,

a dead man and his things.