[Inspired by Over The Ocean’s “I Will Be Silent”:]
Dust coating shelves, petal-coated
itself from the flowers now dead
from that night weeks before.
Finger trailing in the dirt, through
the memories since then to now,
she sinks to the floor, pulling
with her a book at random.
Pages fall open to words which
had so much meaning before.
Who can write from only pain?
Tears hit the page, type blurs
with the salty liquid. She observes,
detached and apart from her form,
from flesh; a spirit confused, looking
down on herself in all ways.
So close she can see carpet fibres
fluffing up, big as leaves of autumn,
missed by a vacuum inactive, waiting
in a cupboard – with hopes, with dreams –
shut up and forgotten in light of
this: what was this, exactly?
A descent, return to prior state, “alone”.
[Copyright © N R Nolan]