It's a refuge.

It's a reflection

of who, how I am.


The walls are plain white;

I don't have pictures

For adornment, either.

Moonlight trickles through

the spaces in the shut shutters;

They are always closed.

The dissonant piano lies

Entombed beneath worn textbooks,

Which are obscured

By uniforms and interview suits.

The cascade of clothing falling

To the floor creates a wrinkled pool;

Black and white stream

Flowing toward the sealed closet door.

I don't ever open that vault.

It's a storage cell

Of pretty dresses that still have tags,

Of shining shoes still in their boxes;

Of trophies from events I can't recollect;

The memorabilia of a life forsaken.

No, I don't dare open the tomb.


The time flashes green,

Piercing the darkness of the room,

Next to a bed that's never made.

The dusty books sit,

Perched in their high tower;

They've forgotten my sweet caress.

My computer remains on my desk.

There is an untitled document on the screen

Glaring, the cursor blinks on the page

Sadly, words never introduced,

A story never begun,

An abysmal virgin expanse.