random inaccess

Letters describe a moment

where time stretches-

stairs growing longer

with each season,

yet the house doesn’t change.

Names slip-

spoken and lost,

like coins lost in a torn pocket-

clinking faintly in empty halls.

Mornings are misplaced,

slipped into tired afternoons.

The calendar lies blank,

scraped raw,

its edges powdered

with erased plans.

Looking-glass memory fogs up,

reflections blur and scatter

across the silent rooms.

Rooms hollow

as unbreathed ribs,

their emptiness pressing in.

The speaker moves,

each step testing balance,

each pause

a fight to recall a name.

The body grows heavy.

But in the space

between heartbeats-

this quiet nestles within its cage.

.

Reviews

[RomaJ]

The surreal imagery is like waking in a dream. I once dreamt that I was in an unfamiliar house and I looked in the mirror and was horrified to see an elderly woman as my reflection. I kept touching my face, just simply horrified. Then young unfamiliar people walked toward me and called me "mom" they were so genuinely caring and tender, that I actually accepted my fate to live as this old woman, just so, they won't be so sad or worried. Reading your poem, it feels like time itself is aging, it stretches and "stairs growing longer", with memories slipping. But one thing, that stands out: is the house hasn't changed. I find that to be comforting. Thanks for taking me on this tour through a house like in Alice in wonderland.
Roma

[redd Brick Keshner]

That’s such a beautiful connection you made, Roma. Alice in Wonderland was a formative literary influence for me as a child, so I love that you felt echoes of its dreamlike houses and shifting realities in the poem. Your reflection makes me appreciate how those surreal, whimsical spaces can still offer comfort even when time feels slippery. Thank you for sharing your dream and for walking through the poem with such wonder. 🙏🕊️