The wind in my hair, almost through me,
Even when standing in my dust-encrusted room.
Silence wraps me in a cocoon.
Memories are slight and fragmentary.
The white sheets shrouding my furniture
Like the grey areas that occupy my mind,
Are all reminders of what I know I should remember, but can't.
The room smells of loneliness, of disuse, of death.
The rain outside leaves a pattern of drops on the window,
Almost as though the elements are trying to tell me something.
But I am wary of looking close.
Instinct never lets one down.
A newspaper flutters on the floor,
I glide across the dusty tiles to reach it.
Shock holds me frozen, just as death freezes out memories.
My picture looks back at me from the obituary column.
I have seen enough.
The wind rushes through me as the paper flutters on the floor again.
Silence croons to me till I lose focus.
Grey covers my vision, the wind feeds on me again.
Adding your comment:
