Poetry and Writes

Old Room (POEM)

I wonder what the paintings
On the off-white walls mean

A gathering of people on a street
In old-fashioned clothes

A pale blue sky, leafless trees, red
Church spire in the distance

What are their stories
And why are they here?

The room is stuffy, so
I crack open the window

That doesn't have a screen.
I sit here under a thick

Brown blanket, imagining
Creatures slipping through the crack

I imagine music breaking in
Breaking the silence

To an uproar of sound,
A perfect din

And this is all we are--
A multitude of noise.

NOTE: I wrote this at midnight in a tiny room at my grandparents' house about a year ago.

--KingfisherBirdLady