Tuesday, July 5, 2011



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.