The Empty Room

Alone the bones of the room bear no weight of responsibility nor does it bare its breast of secrets a broken pane provides a breath with a pang of lavender a wistful inhale inhabits the lungs of this space as the room tries to embrace oh embrace the breathing breeze to squeeze a semblance of life into this place but the breeze a gypsy whisper-warm needs freedom to come and sweep sun-dust up into swirls of pinprick-stars... then go not beholden to bones stoic and standing nor to dust stranded midair to fall in despair abandoned with less a good-bye as bygone laughter and lullabies are held on lath-tongues behind horsehair plaster walls but mute memories mingle in dust like fireflies in dusk; her suckling coos rocking chair nights plashes of mud-puddle tears —a colored canvas that minions of time would rather gesso white in its bones the room remembers its worth as a womb nurturing a baby’s breath neath blue-skin-skies where rows of purple grow till Mistral wind blew cold and flew her lavender soul far from home oh the loss of life —wind-crashing-seas-onto-rocks— loss of life skeleton ribs of the crib stripped of her lavender sprig loss of life