What Matters.

2 Jan

The books on the shelf,
read long ago,
now spines in a row.

The pictures on the wall,
hung there,
hide the wall’s bare.

The bottles on the counter,
I don’t touch,
ron, brandy, scotch.

The plants in the bedroom,
when I remember,
get water.

There are few clues,
salseras hidden,
beneath the linen.

The relics in this place,
alive and not,
are all rot.

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