the vibrato of a dying room

repetition plagues me.

There is a faint thudding encapsulating my thoughts

I cannot hear anything else.

This dull light that casts the saddened

reflection of my tired hands, is the

only thing that connects my pen to paper.

No.

It is the only thing

that connects me to this room.

If, for somehow, i could detach my

tired gaze from my fluctuating mind

I wouldnt waste that moment, no.

Id hug time and then smash every

Clock within myself, simultaneously, almost devotedly.

Though time has ceased and rain

licks up the frames of my window.

The thudding persists.

Though now it has harshened to

pained sobs and wails, desperate gashes

embed within the walls of my captor.

Revealing the soft flesh of my room,

its tender paint and stucco exposed in a desperate embrace.

I am willing to risk

everything. anything quite possibly.

to taste the glass,

to huff the sweet scent of sticky air and pine.

I am unabashedly entranced

by the still droplets.

And if the shuttering and shivering clouds

that have unsheathed this dying sight upon me,

if those clouds could hear me in this warm, pale room.

I would scream out to them

how their attention tastes like honeyglow.

And i will always crave their adoration

no matter what is unveiled to me.