Tentative steps taken
toward a room thought to be forgotten.
Strangely they could still remember
where everything was
the day they left. The chipped vase
tucked away on the corner table,
though drowned in dust. Or the painting
of a bouquet of roses
on the kitchen wall, though tilted,
still bleeding red.
What was missing was the mellifluous
sound of songbirds,
once perched on the window,
now covered by total silence
as if seeing no point
in singing another love song.
© annie scribes 2017
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