He turned the Key

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a familiar place, where days turn into nights.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He Turned the Key

What did he enter? His world of solitude,

loneliness and depression, a familiar place

where days turn into nights and echoes

of hollowness drip from a rusted faucet.

 

Leftovers slowly rotting in a humming

fridge while arm and hammer fail to

absorb all odors efficiently.

 

Dishes pile in the sink while the ink

dries on the pages left blank with

attempts to encourage its pen holder

to think, think and pull the words

from deep within.

 

He cries awhile, face bowed in hands

shaking violently from the white line

he sniffed begging forgiveness for the

wrongs committed in his solitary life.

Where did it all go? Love died, his soul

empty and begging to die and be let go.

 

Turn it up and let the neighbors scream

and beat upon each other then pour

another glass of cheap wine sit back

and dream of better years gone by

when children played before you

and a house was a home and Santa

was real.

 

The clock is ticking louder these

days and the sand in his hour

glass falls quicker to the bottomless

lost days.

 

Harboring guilt he ages in colors

of grey and black remembering

barely as his memory fades.

No longer a proud man, he bows

and falls to both knees before

his god crying and weeping aloud,

but no one cares he hears just

the gnashing of teeth.

 

© Copyright Vincent Moore. All Rights Reserved


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