This Modern Decay

The dust mites gather
In the spaces left behind
By shadow and light
And everything in between
This room abandoned
Left to decay
All cobwebs and flies
Where once was laughter
A little girl’s voice
High-pitched and immature
The stuffed porcupine
In a sea of pillows
As delicate as skin
This fickle thing called time
No circumstance or rhyme
Can bring it all back
All replaced by silence
And the shuffling of rats
Across the parquet floor
Testament to life
And its eccentricities
These shifting sands
Mixing with dirt and consequence
And the wrecking ball
Hovering over it all
Waiting for the laughter
That will never come again.

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