The space in my head where there used to be words,
is filled with nothing but cobwebs and dust bunnies.
Where the stories would form up and battle for my time,
only abandoned hovels sit with fireplaces no longer lit,
no longer smoking.
It’s like my mind has left it to grow emptier,
barren, all the characters, all their memories packed,
stowed away, moved on, collecting every last scrap,
of who and what they are.
Of who and what they were.
The space in my head is large enough for wanderers,
taking the time to use the crumbling huts, the firepits,
just flitting travelers passing through,
one day they’re here, the next, hefting the bags,
on shoulders that take them far away.
They ran, taking their lives with them,
leaving homes and memories in the dust and stone,
until none were left.
It’s an empty room in a house full of laughter,
the only room that’s never lit,
the only room that’s never opened,
just peeling paint and uninvited critters,
but the world is just beyond the door.