Dust on Canvas

From the top shelf it came,

a dull thud on the floor,

smelling of things that remain

behind a closed door.

Canvas, faded blue,

a fine dust on its skin.

The handle, it felt loose,

a wobble from within.

That corner, where thread pulls pale,

a ghost of a journey,

a forgotten, long-told tale,

of places I once burned to see.

Now it sits, a hump,

just holding air.

A silent, waiting lump,

going nowhere.