The Room

Skin runs cool with artificial breeze that whistles with futility like a lost distant kettle

Obligatory words in the side drawer closed as if they were themselves a blasphemy

Burning reads, expletives in the margins, dripping smell of quiet drowning nicotine hope

Turn down, turned down, cotton used and bleached to new still holding what it held

Set to dusty, tired ageing wood that to the eyes longs for release to its origin; if only

Neon sets a spider’s path on slabs of off white tiled necessities whilst a tap drips nonchalant

This vessel of choice to all who choose in the walls that bleed paint like a choir of screams

Liquor stained comfort like an old man’s regret still grasped with yellow fingers ‘til it’s drained

And then there is the view…


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