A White Room Iv

Into the white room With folded time Worn into the sublime Watching the figure standing Here standing there In the corner Where the shadows bare Where things dare Watching the passing of a life In the strobes of one's afterlife The flickers of memory The moments of history The monuments of The stuff that transcends The essence of a void What is made of What was imagined In the white room, the floor is bare Nothing left there only two moments Taken like photographs Can I of the soul see the ramifications In the seconds that are folded and worn Like photographs on the dead fireplace The white room is getting cold The procession has come, old The procession left nothing to bare The passing of nothing Something rare There on the floor, bare I see a shadow roaming uncertain Where time is warned bare In a white room with black curtains an ode to stones