The Death of the Party

The party ended long ago

Yet why I’m still here I don’t know

The music of the broken chair

A symphony that spreads, threadbare


The red balloons float near the wall

Their strings drift slowly toward the hall

Beneath my thoughts, a wistful broom

The dust around it sweeps the room


A candle molds on windowsill

It holds a light that sits too still

Whose slice of cake lies on the floor

Within the shadow of the door


I don’t remember who was here

To celebrate throughout the years

I want to stay, although I know

My party ended long ago

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