Silent storehouse

Cans stacked like forgotten secrets,

jars coated with a haze of dust,

labels peeling like old news.

A box of pasta, empty and wedged

behind pickles, hides in silence,

forgotten in this small room

where hunger once kept a ledger.

The smell of stale flour drifts,

a ghost of meals planned

and never made,

reminders that survival

is a quiet kind of hope,

stored away,

just out of reach.