Dusty

Dusty corridors of forgotten rooms,
Where sunlight sighs through cracked‑paned gloom,
A hushed blanket of amber‑brown
Cloaks the floor, the chair, the town’s old crown.

In the attic’s breath, the moth‑worn trunks lie still,
Their secrets curled in layers thin as quill,
Each grain a whisper of times once bright—
Now settled, patient, waiting for the light.

On the pavement, lorries kick up clouds,
A fleeting haze that shyly shrouds
The cobbles’ gleam, the market’s hum,
Turning bustle into a muted drum.

Even the garden’s rose, bedewed at dawn,
Finds specks of earth upon its lawn—
A gentle reminder, soft and stark,
That beauty lives beneath the dark.

So let the dust settle, soft and slow,
A quiet poet’s gentle glow,
For in its humble, patient grace
We see the past, we trace our place.