A simple question you ask, a short sentence ended in whisper and eyes fixed at mine.
The brain and heart are lost for words – the lips keep quiet.
I have not got an answer to your question and
to write a letter is considered outdated.
I sit in my soft chair with the broken mirror at my back
and the sand running through the hourglass.
I sit to write a poem.
A poem about love yet to come with the next spring or
the sea waves that come and go or
the stars bright and distant.
The door bell rings – it must be you.
I ran to answer but no ... and toddle back to that chair.
The words do not come and I have forgotten the premise.
I sit in that chair in the corner,
the corner of time where neither dreams survive nor plans.
Succumbed to memories I want to stop the time.
Not sure when.
The mirror at my back falls in a myriad of shards.
The sand stops running in a minute of silence,
deep and sharp and timeless.
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