Black paint fills the corner,
Of a small forgotten room,
Scattered, shattered glass around,
To ensure not many will pass through.

No wind to sway the curtains,
Of the windows, busted out,
A musty stench sweeps over,
Like an old, abandoned house.

The once fresh hardwood floors,
Now creak with age and use,
Stained with cold neglect,
An irrevocable, stolen youth.

Concealed beneath a worn, silk sheet,
A record player hums,
Spinning, skipping, static noise,
The music now unsung.

This is but a single space,
In an expansive, mansion still,
Each room a story, dark and light,
Some you’ve not seen and never will.

Tonight I lay among the dust,
Of my record room, confined,
Comfort in the peeling paint,
In this corner of my mind.


4 thoughts on “Sick

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