My Room Whispers to Me
And tells me of itself
My room whispers to me
And tells me of itself,
A story never straight, never set
Yet its walls are level as a shelf:
.
One day it is a poet's room
Inlaid with tears of ink
And clothes and blankets tossed aside
Soaked in scented herbs
And tired pride
.
One day it's the owner's room,
Desk, chair, floor stacked high
With books that speak of business
Learning all the knowledge-wealth
To buy freedom from dizziness
.
Another day, another tale:
This time, there lives a fighter
Who fights to win a belt
And dreams of winning glory
Before his fears are felt
.
Not long, it's a father's room
Where patiently he waits
To hold his future child,
Warmhearted that his life has yielded
Something undefiled
.
Now it is a shaman's
Who communicates with gods,
Helping people's minds relax
By telling them what pacifies
And not the ugly facts
.
But now the room is mine
And I lie in it alone
Yet I fear its wispy tongue:
It waits for me to leave this cell
So it can sing my song
.
Thank you for reading. If you like what you read, please follow me on IG and TW: @aulos.media
About the Creator
Aulos.Media
I'm working on my webnovel, "Binary Shadows: The Prize of the Cybernaughts." I have 47,000 words so far. Once I reach 100,000, I'll start posting it on Royal Road.
I like....lots of things.
IG and TW: @aulos.media
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.