The Waiting Bag

A bag hangs on the wall,
between silence and time,
its straps like tired arms
that once held the world.

It remembers movement-
streets rushing past,
hands that held it close,
days that never paused.

Now it rests,
light as forgotten breath,
yet heavy with echoes-
of rain, of footsteps, of somewhere.

Dust settles like soft memories,
and still, it waits-
not in emptiness,
but in becoming.

For one day,
a hand will return,
and it will carry life again.

Product: Print
Size: Custom