Day 22 NovPAD Challenge

The Architecture of a Moment

The Architecture of a Lodger (long form)

A single word becomes a key.
It turns the lock on a moment,
and a memory enters
like a ghost,
a lodger,
furnishing my mind
with its own, particular light.

It feeds all day
on the steam rising from my coffee,
on the rhythm of my walk,
on a note, a song,
on the colour of the sky.
It grows solid, real,
more present than the chair beneath me.

And then, some small, ridiculous spell
makes it vanish.
A phone rings.
A door slams.
A cloud slips across the sun,

and the lodger is gone.
The rooms stand empty,
swept clean,
as if no one ever lived there.

The key is still in my hand,
but the lock is nowhere to be found.

How strange
to hold a world so completely,
only to be left
with the scent of its weather
and the outline of its absence.

The Architecture of a Lodger (Anglo-Saxon Accentual Verse)

A word is a key
cut out of breath;
it turns a moment,
opens the past.

Memory moves
like a ghostly guest,
filling my mind
with forgotten light.

It feeds on coffee,
on footfall rhythm,
on sky-colour drifting
through the day.

Then a small spell
scatters its shape;
a ringing phone,
a door’s sharp slam.

Shadows shift;
the ghost is gone.
Rooms stand empty,
swept of its weight.

The key remains,
warm in my hand,
but the lock has slipped
into the air.

Strange, this power
to hold a world,
yet end with only
its fading scent.

Notes: Rooted in the oldest English tradition, Anglo-Saxon accentual verse follows the rhythm of breath and heartbeat rather than syllable or rhyme, where meaning is carried by cadence, image, and pause.

It's Still Life