Robert Horton Poet Rhyme

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

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