The room is not good company.
It sits ill within itself,
wearing a thin veil of ash-brown particles
disturbed only by years of sleep walking.
All that nakedness,
all our footprints
washed away in tides of dust.
The room has no windows, and no souls to want them.
The years have stripped us down to core,
A boat of bones,
a wooden floor,
gangly planks on a beach deserted,
a heart bleached of blood.
