Unlived

The coldness of a soiled plate
mocks me about indifferent warmth
in a life chilled
by killing circumstance.

Unwashed clothes
cry for my attention
as I choose and tary
what to clear, which to leave behind.

Dust on shelves
have a field day covering places
like sand in a desert storm.
I write my name in dust.

Food aching to be cooked.
Dishes lost in recipes
long forgotten
in the misty edges of time.

Life still unlived...