The Tiny Room

I have spent years
in the tiny room
of my life, etching lines
in the floor
with bed-frame claws.
I inject ink
into the cracks
of my cell walls, I drag
empty body-bags
into the closet
to hang them
beside my Sunday best.
My tiny room
sways at the top
of a forgotten Christmas
tree like the heavy star
over Bethlehem, or the guiding
light for a summer-bound
bird. Here I collect
past dues, indefinite
promises, this is where I find
more capable sea-legs.
My room is filled
waist-high with used light
bulbs, like an unshaken
snow-globe, dead white
flakes coating half
of a tiny skyline.
Its boxes are labeled
and crossed out
and relabeled
and stacked
in the center
like a support beam,
and although it has no roof,
my room is weather-ready
and stable. I can sleep
here. Its shoreline-sways
sing like a mother,
and I drift as a seasoned sailor
along the red reflection
of a soothing wave.

Reviews

[Emily B]

mmmmm. i floated right along, lovely and bleak and hopeful all at the same time

[Muse]

Your head took me to some crazy places...brilliant. This tiny room you speak of seems to offer up a place of solitude and self-reflection.

[Pryde Foltz]

Its shoreline-sways
sing like a mother,
and I drift as a seasoned sailor
along the red reflection
of a soothing wave.

Just beautiful pkuhl.

[Elizabeth]

Love this. Injecting ink into cracks and hiding skeletons in the closet next to Christmas Ornaments... clever. I dig the lack of structure. I think my room must look a bit like yours.

[_mal]

This is amazing, would love to read more like this. Very original, beautiful.