The Empty Room
Eight minutes in,
dream-debut decomposing,
marred in mad mud.
Barely begun, his brutish block,
a tackle that tore through time,
trailed by the walk of shame.
Elation fades, deflation reigns,
suspended in solitude,
exiled in emptiness.
The still dressing room droning.
He sits soaked in sweat and sorrow,
an anvil of anguish weighing down on his chest.
A downpour of despair envelopes him,
Relentless…
His dream withering in a damp corner.
He inhales the burden,
of cold crushing desolation,
agony amplified,
Loneliness lingers…
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