Bed not made that was left untouched,
Scattered books hit by the storm,
Photographs blurred by the day and night,
Scent of dust that choke who'll breathe for the past.
It was seven days unopened,
The wind had moved out before he does,
Left unseen below the floor that creeks.
Doors shut closed for all that is none?
Even for those who are closed by blood,
They dare to see what has left by him,
Only traces of fear and grief.
YOU ARE READING
A Ludicrous World
PoesíaA Collection of Poetry written by Kyle Patrick De Guzman It is a world filled with absurdity where only a few could understand and take. It is all real or could just be a mere possibility - for some. "Nothing is absurd as long as it is real and plau...
