The Empty Bench

I look
A wooden bench with knotholes
Groans as I sit down
Looking on
Eyes carried by the brisk wind
Towards a figure
He stands
This afternoon
I had gotten up
And left the floral room
The one with all the pills
With the strange yet “clean” scent
I had left it
Bedroom slippers on
Walking towards
The bench
Sitting down
The wind ruffles hair long gone
I remember when I
First came to this park
With eyes bright
And a bag
Filled with stale bread
To feed the grey geese
The bench creaks
As I get up
Walking towards
The man made pond
Where the man stands
I reach out
And fall into the pond
My memories pass
From my hands
To his
Death takes me
Down memory lane
To a pair of gates
They are made of
Something indescribable

One thought on “The Empty Bench

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