WHAT’S IN A MUSEUM?
(Ekphrasis poetry form)
September 25, 2008
I’m not the same person
I was seven years ago
whose soles confidently tapped,
with younger feet, upon
this same tiled floor.
The echoes hung off the
chandeliers, dripped down
the museum walls, and pooled
in cool liquidless puddles
at the trunks of these
naked statues counting
on dreams, chasing them
with ephemeral pipes believing
they were forever.
Now they silently tremble
along the baseboards
with the dust and the dregs
and the dross and wait
for the last echo to sound
before silence takes over forever.
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