I am a dark room.
Space for the pretender
where the unlikely meets sense
distracted.
Lamps switched off and light refracted
through grimy windows I never clean.
Shadows lurk in the corners
gloating of bad intent,
but are empty,
they are soft insecurities blending so contently
with my fears,
and doubts.
What creeps and crawls under and behind things
tries to pry.
What lives in darkness scheming
likes to lie,
consistently hoping that everything bad that can happen
will.
Murphy
I am a dark room,
still,
like cave water, never moving
only reflecting.
Nothing but space stretches
in the cavity between my temples.
I am Alcatraz for the temporary tempermental
Black Palace for the wandering unbalanced
and library for the lost and used.
I am a dark room,
uninhabited and perused.
Books flipped through and discarded
lay about the floor of my mind,
all diaries chronicling a time when things were fine.
Messes lay around, dirty laundry and panties left behind
from visitors that might’ve come to stay.
Never making love to my mind, just chasing a roll in hay
before leaving.
I am a dark room
of somber thought beyond believing,
too small,
too spacious,
too full and too vacant.
I am a dark room locked off
and abandoned.
Shadows shrinking
long gone beyond
understanding.