Constructed empire of solitude, now an empty home, picture covered walls,
Momemtos of past moments, now so quiet and subdued.
A dimly furnished room, reminders of childhood days now long gone.
Memorial rooms all about ghuosts, they make their way through the surrounding gloom.
I have come to make my visit, returning to old times.
Conversations take me here and take me there.
There is nothing wrong so please don’t ask “what is it?”
He speaks words of criticism, framing careful opinions.
He’s knows them well, his view from behind that same old prism.
This visit is an interruption of that solitude, a chance to shake off the dust and air out the house.
Carefully avoiding anything of any magnitude.
Old man look in my eyes and notice the reflection.
Notice the image drawn there so close to your own complexion.
You speak of gratitude, extended hand and slight grin.
I bite my tongue and do not reveal anything of any magnitude.
T.S. Deary
Pictures Assembled From Memory 