Poems and excerpts from books I probably won't write.

Loneliness

My body is an empty house. Old and withered from the seasons past. Worn down steps that lead to faded curtains where the sun shined just a little too long. The only visitors that grace these walls are those who come to leave their reckless mark upon them. They never think to ask my squeaky floor boards of a time when laughter filled the halls. Or see if the old bed upstairs,falling apart and mildewed,once held a life so large before it died out. Like a star in the night shining brightly before falling to earth. The only thing to remember it by;a touch of stardust. -aLr