The Passerby – July 31, 2019


A lifetime used

To wonder,

But never reach out.


Time is dirty,

Muddy prints left.

Tracking down

Nostalgia lane.


Doors opened,

That should have stayed closed.

Latched and locked,

But picked with curiosity.


Trouble spilling on the floor,

Swept clean.

Specks of dust remain,



It is present,

But invisible.


And shuffled around.


The particles collect

Into the corners.

The sudden whoosh

Of a passerby,


Up in the air and in your face.

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