We live -

Individually,

Behind closed doors;

Empty, enclosed spaces,

Four

Blank

Walls.

I, who called these things my own,

Now know it belongs to another

Distant figure -

Same name, same face.

Dead shadow of a memory,

Who speaks from my voice box -

Or what used to be mine.

Listen; do the walls not speak?

Dead speeches, evaporated

Laughter?

Smiles of a sarcophagus,

Chased, replaced

By an enshrouding darkness

A reminder of broken glass and irrelevant unhappiness;

So I

Close

My

Door.

And I can't pretend I don't hear,

Because I don't hear anything at all;

My own vulgarity is my imagined passion

Of words that represent this dense atmosphere.

Tired tears,

Flow for mine own sake.

Yet what the body denies the mind does not;

I am not stupid -

I know -

And that is what disheartens me.

And I can't pretend I don't hear,

Because I don't hear anything at all;

And,

Though subsumed in mine own despair,

I can't say I see,

Or feel

Because I stand in the hallway

Of

Closed

Doors.