Post-apocalyptic bedroom

I write to get it out, a mini mushroom cloud.

Peace surrounds my wrists but there's war in my eyes

it burns when no one sees

and is not easily diffused.

But it doesn't escape, it never attacks.

This post-apocalyptic bedroom sits

and gathers the dust of a life lost

partially reformed

and lost again.

A shanty town of hope

abandoned here.

The soul moved elsewhere that year.

Here lies the carcass of dreams

in the grave of ideas.

It rots, though no one sees, there is a smell.

23-09-2009