I am a room bathed in light. I am hiding secrets grim.
I long to utter a speech while whispers come and die.
Beneath the desk and chair hold documents well aware;
I turn my back upon tempestuous love affairs.
Often late at night when helmer meditates;
The pangs of unlit conscience with fear
I chose to claim. Outcast and forgotten
I am often dark and closed. If solitude’s
the heart of wasteland, I am dauntless
Through and through.
I am open once again to newer age prospects
Have left my youth in gold cruet I figured
Oh what’s the use. At times I peered alone
His worn and battered face. I am yet to find
Deduce if jokes were blunt or crude.
Photo credits: www.pockettactics.com
Posted for Midweek Motif @ Poets United