Crowded Rooms

Crowded Rooms In and out the same old rooms Sweeping the debris with makeshift brooms, Knee-deep in acrid fumes, Cluttering the corridors with dusty tombs. A crowd gathers to watch the farce, For a minute or two and then they pass, Along the passages endlessly sparse, Except for the fool scratching his ****. This way, that way, hesitantly pause, Too many exits but not enough doors, Fumbling fingers, blistered and sores Weep for the angels dressed as whores. A crowd gathers to hear his screams, All is not well in his mind, it seems, High expectations and low self-esteems Litter the night with terrible dreams. Sometimes well sometimes sick, Light as a feather, heavy as brick, If only one room wasn't a trick Surely he would know which life to pick. A crowd gathers to tear him apart, To sell his soul and break his heart, "Bring out your dead!" "Throw him on the cart!" But kiss him instead before they depart. Up and down like puppetless strings, Dangling mid-air with invisible wings, Easily confused by supernatural things, He sweeps the corpses a stranger brings. A crowd gathers to take him to bed, In a room somewhere, deep in his head, Where he'll sleep, pretending to be dead, While all along part of the crowd instead. ©RJVHorton2016