Blank walls
paint the
transparent halls
of my memory.

The tragedy
is that I can’t see
pass the
The steps
that spiral
into grief.

The unpainted
empty timber
barn toy box
collects dust,
leaving me
to choke
on what was once
playful fancies.

The closet is closed,
but beyond
the dark brown
wooden patterns
I hear echoes;

People I knew
talking,
sitting in old
frayed
lawn chairs,
looking up
at the night sky,
and me playing.
Star light,
flint rocks,
and fireflies
sparkle
escaping
through the crack.

But the door
is locked
and I can’t
get back
to that or
to those I miss.

So, I cry.
Fear
plants its fierce feet
hard into my face
as I worry
that I will be to late
to say goodbye
to the next
loved one that dies.