The second hand

ticks

over a silent room

where sits the empty chair

chained at the bent leg.

A quiet sunlight

tumbles in from beyond the

iron bars

unyielding.

Once, the wind carried a soft

flutter of rose warmth and

serene sunshine.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Now, a thick dust settles

over barren valleys

stripped naked,

left violated,

discarded by those hands

that once sowed the soil

for the faintest flower.

The clouds no longer

need to inhabit the sky.

They instead don

thick coats of

dust, radiance, and foul stenches

to roam the place

Where once there were others.