Nelly the Hoarder

Nelly the Hoarder

Nelly lived at number four,

papers stacked behind the door,

bags of buttons, broken clocks,

rusted keys in tangled socks.

Cups she’d never drink from twice,

mouldy bread and hardened rice,

string from parcels long forgot,

cans of soup, and God knows what.

Neighbours spoke in whispered tones,

called her house a heap of bones,

but Nelly smiled, she didn’t care,

found her riches everywhere.

To her, the scraps were threads of gold,

stories that were never told,

pieces of a life she’d known,

fearing emptiness alone.

One day, silence filled her flat,

no more rustling this and that.

All those things she left behind,

echoed what she tried to find.

And now the street feels strange and bare,

without her clutter, charm, and care.

Nelly’s gone, but still they say,

her hoard remains to this very day.

Somewhere behind the dust and grime,

you’ll find a clock that lost its time,

a single shoe, a broken comb,

and scraps of what she called her home.