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!
Read 106 times
Written on 2019-07-19 at 17:18

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A few sentences covering a whole lifetime. Some prattle on with words so meaningless ( insert my own moniker here), yet you laid before us a weighty heartful of intense emotions and I say boy, I wish I could write like that .

So lonely and deep...
Thank you for sharing

jim The PoetBay support member heart!
This is a gem of succinctness.