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The door yawns open—
its hinges groan like old bones.
Dust blooms in the light,
a ghost of every footstep
that once passed through.

The walls inhale,
exhaling the scent of old wood,
something sour, something lost.
Wallpaper peels like dead skin,
exposing the raw ribs of the house.

In the kitchen, the table waits,
a chair slightly askew—
as if someone had just left,
as if they might return.

A single cup, cracked,
lingers in the sink,
stained with ghosts of coffee,
lips that once pressed its rim.

The stairs creak beneath my weight—
not in protest,
but in recognition.
They know me.
They remember.

Upstairs, the air thickens,
choked with the weight of silence.
A door stands half-open,
swollen with time,
holding its echoes close.

The bed is made,
but the sheets lie stiff with dust.
A shirt drapes over the chair,
sleeves limp, reaching—
but for no one.

I reach out, fingers grazing glass—
a shadow stirs in the corner of my eye,
but when I turn, nothing waits for me.
Only absence.
Only the house, patient, watching.

I swallow,
but the house does not.
It keeps everything.
It keeps them.

I turn to leave—
but the walls hold their breath.
They know.
I will come back.

I always do.

Andi Leigh Feb 1
Who would want to be swept
Into the shadows—

Treated like an inconvenience,
A dust bunny that needs
To be wiped away—

I am not a serial doormat
Or a vial emptied—its purpose
Served—

There is no need to cast
Doubt—

Your discomfort is no concern
Of mine

When all you'd wish to happen
Is for me to disappear.
...dust. Ethereal disgust;
the, revolver, Earthly,
expires, coo d'etats. Droning,
are; discharges, of, mistrust.

Early, empires, of, devilment. Driven-on;
gritty, caustic, roads,
of, gristled, carbon, and, skin.
Exuviated, by, serpentine; clouds, gusts.

Makes, death; evolve.
Caught, in, each, tyre-tread,
is, every, copied, dynasty;
crushed, done, then... Chaos.
Eventually, everything,
self-destructs.

From, erstwhile, meagre,
nihilism, upended. Cometh,
mere, scintillating, diamonds. Of,
their; cognition, desires, meat. Dust...

© poormansdreams
Life, death, and, dust.
Hebert Logerie Dec 2024
J’ai la couleur du café mal grillé
Et celle du chocolat précocement
Sevré, par les rayons du soleil du midi.

Mes cheveux évaporés, depuis des décennies,
Me suscitent à être reconnaissant,
Parce que je suis chanceux et fortuné,
De voir tourner la terre pour tant d’années.

J’ai les lèvres d’un politicien giflé,
Par les poêles d’un chef maltraité,
Et les dents tachées par le sang coagulé.

Ma langue coupée, hachée et fracassée
Sera avalée comme le rôti volé au marché
Des esclaves morts pendus et torturés
En plein air, sous les verrous des voitures.

J’ai la peau des vers de terre assassinés.
Mon nom tachera la langue des oppresseurs
Et anesthésiera la colère des fieffés menteurs.

Je porte avec fierté la couleur du café mal grillé
Et celle du chocolat oublié dans les cafetières;
Aucun humain ne mérite d’être classé parmi les ordures,
Même si demain tout retournera en poussière.

Le marron inconnu est mon frère aîné;
Les rayons solaires nous ont parfaitement flambés,
Comme le café et cacao venus d’un pays émancipé.

Copyright© Décembre,2011, Hébert Logerie, Tous Droits Réservés
Hébert Logerie est l’auteur de plusieurs recueils de poèmes.
Emma Dec 2024
Silent ruins stand,
Ghosts of a lost world whisper,
Dust cloaks barren dreams.
greatsloth Nov 2024
Dust had long settled on that heart,
It barely works and full of rust,
Though it was only used once
After a misery it was
Thrown aside like a trash;
It is an antique with no value
And never would have one
No matter how much time passes—
A piece that would stay on the shelf
Until it crumble into dust.
Moe Nov 2024
You sit across from me, fingers tapping on the table like an old, tired clock  
the coffee’s lukewarm, or maybe it’s just me, just us, cooled down past feeling  
I think I know what you’re about to say—each word feels predictable,  
like something we’ve each rehearsed in silence, rehearsed in sleep  
over all those quiet nights stacked like dusty paperbacks in the dark.  

You start to speak, and it’s all at once a whisper and a thunder  
this is going nowhere, you say, eyes unfocused, tracing patterns in the grains of the table  
but they could be roads we didn’t take, conversations we skimmed over like surface water,  
laughs that slid away from us, thin as the ghosts of things we meant to say.  

You remember? I ask, but the question is a loose thread, unwinding  
you don’t answer, or maybe I don’t want you to, afraid that the answer  
is already a shrug, a frown, something we didn’t even bother to feel fully  
perhaps that’s where we lost it, somewhere in all the half-hearted glances,  
in words we threw out like pennies, thinking they meant so little.  

And you’re saying something now about how we grew apart  
how things faded, softened, grew heavy,  
but it just sounds like rain hitting a window in the next room  
distant, muffled, and I’m not sure if you’re talking to me  
or if you’re just talking to the echo of us, hanging in the air like stale perfume.  

Maybe it’s been over for a long time, we both realize, like realizing  
the book is already finished, though you’re still holding it,  
turning the last page back and forth as if another ending might slip in  
but there’s nothing, only the way your face looks in this light,  
so familiar it’s like staring at a stranger in a mirror.  

And I think, somewhere, we both hope one of us will say something grand  
something that burns, something that brings back color, sound, a heartbeat  
but the silence sits there, a wall between us, and we’re leaning back now  
resigned, emptied, watching each other through a film of memories  
wondering why we ever tried so hard, or if we tried at all.
Karma Nov 2024
No longer of use,
The static colliding,
The past in recluse
In the attic, residing

Colors rot in the dust
Pictures die in the silence,
As corpses make fust
And complain under pileus.

The mycelium harvest,
In boredom, they thrive.
And much like the artist
Through flesh, their roots rive.

A place where ghosts and ghoul like to screech,
A place where even the flies couldn’t reach.
Abi Winder Dec 2024
worry about you.
                               now.
                                        get through this.

focus on surviving.
                                  on making it through.

the rest is just dust.

                                       and i promise,
                                                                ­  one day,
                                                                ­                  this will be too.
Emery Feine Oct 2024
It comes, it runs throughout this place
It covers, it hovers without a trace
And everything we once loved
We'll never again face

These castle walls were turned from bronze to rust
Shattered from the years of betrayal and mistrust
And the sands which one sparked our dreams
Are now only replaced by dust
this is my 99th poem, written on 5/10/24
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