Echoes in a Liminal Space: The Poetry of What Remains

Empty.
Stuff has been extracted,
but the place remains.

Remains
of a corpse
of a life once lived.

Stains on the carpet.
Once the beginning of a story—
spilled wine, muddy boots—
now the end of a book
no one finished reading.

Wallpaper clings to the walls like old skin.
Ceiling beams exposed
ribs of a body
that can no longer whisper

Ashen silence nests
in every corner.

Dismantled.
Cast aside.
Destined for a dust pile
of other bits of memories
to be forgotten.

Little remains but
Ashes and dust
and the long echo
of being
unneeded.

I’m alone here.
The last witness
to an empty life.