Of What Is Left.

Black and white photos,
old tunes from a guitar,
leftover pencil shavings,
memories from a land so far,
a broken CD playing,
in the silence of the messy room,
the musty smell of old cologne,
aggravating the gloom,
the echoes of laughter,
the remnants of joy,
the moisture of tears,
the happily ever afters,
everything such a distant memory,
like an abandoned dry leaf from a tree,
in the autumns of solitude,
every little wound so helpless and nude.
Familiar faces follow me around,
their footsteps I hear like vivid sounds,
they whisper in my ears about the past,
of how everything ended so very fast,
when I turn back to look behind me,
I'm warned I will turn to stone,
but I don't seem to mind since,
I'm sure it's better than feeling so alone.
The tunes from the guitar,
the melodies from the violin,
the keys of the piano that danced,
all play in my head together,
the sounds get louder and louder,
the beats faster and faster,
I'm shaking till the core,
I can't take any more,
but this feeling fails to end,
for pain has become my friend.
As I'm spinning in a vortex of time,
I hear distant bells chime,
in an array of haphazard vignettes,
I witness so many silhouettes,
of my loved ones, each one by one,
of those I left behind to run,
off to greener pastures I once craved,
of the illusions that left me shaved.
Sighs are left to echo in the calm,
I'm alone to stare at my palms,
trying to decipher what lines say,
whether they too would betray,