The Passing Poem by Valerie Dohren

The air, thick with pregnant anticipation -
somewhere, far away, a clock ticks
louder than before

Whispers permeate the room -
chairs filled, yet empty - empty of hope,
now lost

Then, quietly, silently, a dove is born -
unfurling it's wings it exits the room
through a slightly cracked window

Tapping the glass before
flying into the distance -
higher and higher it soars

The room is still now -
all that can be heard is
weeping, weeping ………

©️24/8/2024 Valerie Dohren