Windowsill

Reflections of yourself don't always come from mirrors.

My windowsill is a museum,

An archive of the bits and bobs,

Of the things too alive to keep in a drawer.

 

To your left, look now-

Flies lie curled in corners,

Flowers droop petal-less and gasping dust,

Figurines with faded faces scream out-

Help us.

Help us, we are disappearing.

 

Ah, and to your right!

Cobwebs drape themselves unhindered,

Broken pencils roll scattered, splintered and hollow,

Virgin mints, having never been inside a mouth,

Gathering in dry humps to sweat their sugar out alone.

Author's Note

Would love any feedback!