It's dark inside,

the rooms ravaged and the floors frayed,

not a soul would step foot.



Step back onto the grass that's dried,

and you wonder where's the aid,

but there's nothing to input.



You walk back to resume your route,

a body breezes past,

they open the door with no doubt,

you look back, it's you.

Portraits lying on the old shelf,
Reminds me of a time
I used to do a good impression
Of myself
They say people never change,
It's rather quite strange
That there's a world beyond that door
While I was stuck sleeping on the floor,
Trying to diverge the bold arrow of time
Is in itself a crime?
Things seem unreal
Like a one-hand clappin'
Things take time to heal,
Just let it happen.

Vellichor (n.): the strange wistfulness of used bookstores.

We see, we hear, we watch,
we talk back. We write.
This is a strange time to be alive.

And if a reader finds this poem,
Buried or dropped or kept:

You see, you hear, you watch,
you talk back. You write.

And I bet you feel the same way.
What strange time it is, indeed,
To be alive.

Mortality is a strange thing. I don't think of her often.
But when I do, she knocks me to my knees. Taking all the air out of my lungs. She's powerful and stoic. Who thinks of her when they are the top of the world?
Not one. But she's always there, to catch you when you're sinking into the floor. Painfully reminding you she's the only one who you speak to when the night is dark and cold.
She's tricky and sly.
Taking the old, but also the young,
a baby, hardly a week old.
a kid, barely a quarter of a century young.
How do I justify her actions? Why not me? I didn't ask for these growing pains. But again, nobody does. Nobody asks to be plucked from the Earth.
Why does she chose to ****** every beautiful being from this Earth?
Why is she so strange?
Perhaps, she must remind us that we are just mortals.
We are of this Earth, she is not.
She must remind us, because we often forget.