I Write Poetry

Beneath the forgotten shadows of a house once home-
though home no more,
it whispers
the continuous reminder of past and abandoned future
They pivot against one another in a feud of melancholy.
Nostalgia burns the air, and the dreams weep in despair
For all that was that could never be.
And so we flee,
Like dust rising in a frantic rush,
Only to sink in the same spot or two,
Reconfigured granules mere illusions of motion.
Perhaps this time change will take wind,
Floating ethereally in a half-filtered sun.
Run!
before it settles.