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.