The Unspoken
A comfy orange armchair sits under a poorly painted
character of the long-dead Lewis Carroll
Though this isn’t the place for White rabbits,
there have been swirling Cups of Tea
sat upon tables, with chipping paint
Some obscure, easy listening tune
from the 90s is playing softly,
it struggles with the hum of fluorescent lights
I decide I don’t know which one is worse
and slowly sip on steamy caramel latte,
disappointment flowing through my very veins
The faint blue lines leave traces of you
the voids that you have long refused to fill
The books are faded
pages yellowed
leaky roof
ticking clock
mildew
and utter insanity
The unspoken
is that which is fading away…
Broken shards of sunlight
to be seen from open window,
oh so close
yet so far away
