There is quiet
in these empty rooms.
the dragonfly floats
trapped in the mud-skin
of its stagnant pool
the sun ebbing
on its cobweb wings.
a broken feather hangs
suspended in the
moribund clouds
a wisp caught
in a death wish.
every pearl drop dries
in every blade of spring.
the earth’s lungs
collapse
with the songs
strummed off-key
with each dying
season’s strings.
So, now, it’s just
the empty rooms.
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