Still Life

The light has come to wake once more

Against the day that moves outside,

The air is dried inside the room,

The books are where they always were.


The blood that shrugs to life again,

Pulls the tide to sob with regret,

The ancient strides that still don't last,

Fill with age when he steps away.


He sifts the ash of a late fire,

No dust floats from the iron grate,

Runs back to where it always was,

Fragile, laid in just the place.


The room is sealed the door set hard,

What is will be continued,

Those that wait will be obeyed,

The dust is set where it ought to stay.


Still life takes place when no one looks,

In this green room he has been placed,

To know and wait and take back time,

From those who took him to this place.