Visitors

I may get dressed

someone might call

although the likelihood

of that is quite small.

A part of me thinks

maybe they still care

and will come and see me

when they have a moment to spare.

But deep down I know

this is not the truth

for I am not the same person

I was in my youth.

Now I find it hard

to look someone in the eye

and when involved in conversation

my tongue gets tied.

Sitting here waiting

for my non-existent visitors,

my home is a prison

and I am its sole prisoner.

brown wooden armchair on brown wooden floor
Photo by Marcelo Jaboo on Pexels.com

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