The Silent Room
I wrote this poem a while ago. I was trying to describe a particular thing without saying what it was. I wonder if people can tell what it is?
I sit here in a silent room,
Awaiting my impend doom.
I grow weary in my tomb.
I can feel my ending loom.
In my silent room there is a door,
Black as night through to the core.
I don’t know what this door is for,
It does not open, what a bore…
When the light grows dim, and I grow cold,
My mind wanders to days of old,
And medieval dungeons stained with mold,
And prisoners from a time untold.
I long to see the sun once more.
I never noticed it before,
Its morning rays I never saw,
And sunset on the ocean shore.
Instead I have this plain white room,
Dim at night and bright at noon.
White despite my constant gloom.
I hope that I can leave here soon.
Through sleepless nights I’ve cried and cried,
And willed the door to open wide.
Many times I’ve tried and tried,
But every time I am denied.
At times when everything is still,
I sit quietly until,
A touching hand gives me a chill.
There’s no-one there, but I feel it still.
My memory is not so clear.
I really don’t know why I’m here.
I try to bring my memories near,
But can only make one image appear…
I was driving, I presume.
Along the highway past the tomb.
A car swerved out, there was a boom,
Then I awoke to find this room.
I don’t know how much time has passed,
Time here seems so wide and vast.
I watch the door but it holds fast,
But I know it will open one day, at last.
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