Almost


Almost
The creases have yet to fall from these curtains I have hung,
Fold lines that intersect, infinitely straight.
Crisp.
Not hung long enough to transform the starched rigidness,
For them to loosen and to drape.
Folded.

The dust has barely settled on the shelves above my head,
Books lined like soldiers; spine to spine and row by row.
Straight.
There will be no silhouette cast in grey powder when they’re gone,
No stories read or words inspired with memory in tow.
Closed.

The pictures hung upon the wall have not faded or discoloured,
Some frames still remain unhinged and rest upon the floor,
Unhung.
Artwork unseen by guests or I, turned to face these walls,
Never stared upon with hungry eyes begging ever more.
Wrapped.

The home that never was a home, just a place I came to stay,
A door, these walls, a window and some things,
Stable.
A place I will remember, but not dwell upon in time,
A place that didn’t give me much, but helped me find my wings.
Gone.


                                                             ~ T.J. White © 2014

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