He hung above us
like a clock with broken hands.
Far from home, time turned backward,
mornings swallowed into dark cerulean hues
his voice arriving after itself
through static telephone wires.
We inherited the house,
the food,
the future.
But never the hands
that built them.
7d ago
May 29, 2026 at 1:39 AM UTC
He hung above us
like a clock with broken hands.
Far from home, time turned backward,
mornings swallowed into dark cerulean hues
his voice arriving after itself
through static telephone wires.
We inherited the house,
the food,
the future.
But never the hands
that built them.
A poem for a painting
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