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| Image / Mihman Duğanlı |
In the attic of almosts
a porcelain hush leans sideways,
smile chipped like a fractured lullaby,
skin lined with the thirst of old rivers.
Once was precious, now prone to gather dust,
curled beside a box that glints like doubt,
its corners soft with silence.
The air forgets its shape,
a hush stitched by trembling filaments;
each floorboard speaks in riddles of return.
A gown slouches in its coffin of cedar,
lace brittle as memory’s aftertaste.
Inked pages curl like scorched moth wings—
words fermented, not read.
Cedar clings like a second skin.
A music box limps through its lament,
the dancer spinning like a lie almost believed.
Books flake like shedding bark,
a rusted clasp kisses nothing,
while dust waltzes in filtered gold,
carrying the weight of what never quite was.
© Peter A. Witt
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| Peter A. Witt |
Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet and a recovering academic who lost his adjectives in the doldrums of academic writing. Poetry has helped him recover his ability to see and describe the inner and outer world he inhabits. His work has been twice nominated for the Best of the Net award. He also writes family history and is an avid birder and wildlife photographer. |
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