Where Poem by soren Barrett
Where
There was no sign of him on Friday and as time grows impatient the cupboard of his presence remains bare. Spiders weave webs over raw nerves where each stray draft tugs the signal of a fly. Yet dust of old hope falls on sticky strands that grow brittle and full of gaping holes. Darkness descends and tomorrow it will be time to clean the closet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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7/30/2026 12:27:22 PM # rel_20260727T173023Z_37e450e
