The very last words to You, to ever be read from myself,
are neither directed solely to You, nor speaking of You only.
For these words, they describe You, as a consummate of spirits--
All that You hide; treasure troves of secrets lie beneath a dirty bed;
The dusty bones of a rattled skeleton, that whispers your name from the closet.
The proverbial scars which cover my being, never will they truly fade away.
You are still there, through all that I face.
Collecting my dust, while You obsess over beckoning me back...
Because You have
nothing else
to do.
YOU ARE READING
365 Days of Poetry (Part Three)
PoetryPart three of my '365 Days of Poetry' challenge, 2020~
