Feelings, poems

Dust at Dusk

the pearls on the frame dulled in the evening light

wiping the edge with her fingertip,

she flicked the particles

and they danced as they fell.

swirling and falling like she used to

in that dress she bought

a pretty penny

that’s what it cost.

stuck in the snow globe house

as fragile as the glass that held the frame

slowly going insane

ripping at the walls

like the crazy woman in that short story.

what was it called?

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