Room
The room in the corner,
With its three wood doors,
Each heavier than before,
A subtle air not of fear,
Patient vents waiting to hear,
Clenching at the scent,
Umbrage and stale paint,
Taste of turpentine and taint ,
Dust gracefully composed,
Large eraser shards in throws,
Senile light made rent,
Lingering weight of lead,
Below a layered graphite bed,
Glows like the antithesis of chrome,
A shallow doom drawn in monotone.
Copyright © Justin Benassi | Year Posted 2012
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