Number 47

A light scent of spring wraps Victorian bones,
Untold tales settle deep within the mortar.
daisies and buttercups haunt the evening,
as warmth is chased the length of fresh cut grass.

Hopscotch chalk fades on the pavement,
a tepid rain washes nostalgia into the cracks.
Curious, mischievous minds in search of adventure
plummet through glass houses,
A lost tooth never found in the ghost of an old world wagon.

Quivering lips sip from a china cup,
holding back tears, seeking refuge within pages.
A rift in the doorway whispers of friendship.
No ghosts haunt the attic—only past selves dust the air.

Carved pinecones dangle as the chipped cuckoo cries
Once—Twice—Thrice.
Dust and tears matt my skin,
reaching for another cherished moment.
holding a lifetime of melancholy.

An endless ache shatters foundations.
No return—
so come with me.