by Gordon Zany
A little piece I wrote awhile ago, only recently did I feel an odd resemblance to it.
Standing in a sunlit hall, windows to my left, doors to my right, a trickle of light between the hail of summer's end, cascading shadows on the wall. First door of three opened into a shadowed curtained study, meant perhaps for some old forgotten writers call. Pens, papers and manuscripts littering the floor like the autumn leaves from the fall. Dust is the rooms second skin, come to claim what belonged to it. The second door won't open, perhaps its chance had slipped away, decisions made and unmade cleared its long forgiven name away, like the once recalled rustle of now bare arms askew on withered trees. Third door stands ajar, window smashed from some unlucky ball, claimed by the guest bedrooms' greedy maw, hungry for the life it had never tasted, love it was seldom given. Forgotten and alone, the hall stands testament in time, where humans once roamed this Earth, these old forgotten spaces now decline.