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The past turns to present the future that’s gone
As the break-fast is over, yet still lingers on.
Some reluctance to go, but no real wish to stay,
As one hair cracks the pillow on which your head lay.
And a bag of belongings, a hole in the floor,
As an empty sleeve crawls out to point to the door.
Feel the stairs slant against you, so hard to go down,
As emotions fatigued meet with you from the ground.
See the leave-patterned carpet, the old shades of brown,
In the dead pile of autumn, a tree sinking down.
Discarded, the crumpled-up unfinished note,
As you reach for the doorknob, a lump in your throat.
A blast of cold wind springs a tear to your eye,
As the door closes slowly, the wind to a sigh.
And the gateway waits open to beckon you free,
As closing it gently you look up to see.
A ghost, at the window, that turns and fades fast.
As the present’s the future, that’s gone with the past.
Tagged in jim barrass