Forgotten faces behind dust frosted glass, from memories faded,

once on trend décor’s now a bygone scene, frozen in time, jaded,

and the tick-tock of the clock.


The sun fights through torn grey lace, it’s rays breaching the gloom,

startled dust quanta by movement stirred,drift in the exposed room,

always the clock goes tick-tock.


A sofa, it’s cushions indented as if the owner is sitting there still,

withered plant, genus unknown, turning to dust on a window sill,

and the never ending tick-tock.


Sooty black smudges on tiles, once admired, a dislodged fire grate

no longer tended , yet back then a crackling warmth able to sedate,

but still that damned tick-tock.


On the mantle stands that clock, with an envelope against it propped,

the letter that I’m seeking now found, I notice all sound has stopped.

Gone the tick-tock of the clock.


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