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Poetry/Lyrics
Essays
There Is Nobody Here
There is nobody here,
said the broken door.
No person to tend the weedy garden.
No hand to scrape bent fingers though,
the dust on tiles that once were new.
No eyes to see the yellowed glass,
or days that pass,
and flaking red paint.
There is no love, or breath.
No heat for the spiders.
No old lady for the lace,
or the yellow stained floor.
There is nobody here
for the rusted lock,
that cries in the rain
and on silent Christmas mornings.
There is nobody here,
said the bones of a crow,
and his fragments of feathers
that wave at the stars.
The ghosts have departed,
said the broken door.
There is nobody here any more.
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