THE EMPTY ROOM
Plain white walls broken
by the odd window and
a paint chipped door.
The wood floor makes its
own statement with ancient
scuff marks and a coating of
dust highlighted by rays of
sunlight peeking through
dirt stained windows.
An iron cot rests in the corner,
covered with a paper thin
mattress, a loose threadbare
blanket thrown roughly over it.
The empty room offers no warmth,
only the distinct smell of a spavined
chamber, a reminder of what
once was, or could have been.
I am the prisoner, locked in my
own silence, a broken heart
beating in a withered chest.
The random memories pulsing
in my head are like pebbles
in a brook, rattling around
then washed away with time.
The room is empty, I am there,
raging against the dying of the light.
