Empty Hours

The empty hours pass. They're autumn leaves
Which drop and blow away with little left to mark
Their disappearance: a defeated man, alone inside
A silent house, a list of things which won't be done,
The number of someone who said to call, but isn't
Ever home. The sun must make its way out west,
And, as it does, the shadows lengthen, brilliant
Light replaced by dusk, then darkness. Still,
The hours pass, each one empty as the one before.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2019-07-19 at 17:18

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