The Lonely Room

The studio had been empty for decades. No one ever entered. Not even maids. As empty as posters and blank pictures. All that remained there were streams of suns alures, Where specks of paint sat in that hues, That disappeared every sunset and returned at mues. Someone had Thoughts of the room. Maybe they were forgotten. There was sadness, as if it remained, Bouncing off the walls. A cold was imagined even on hot days. Nothing remained, not even promises. Nothing lingered, no anticipation of a saint. Did spirits take safety, because of an incident ? Be they slaves, waiting to be released? At least that gave the space a name. It's always The empty space.