The Red Room

A chewed-up sofa

{Chrysanthemums blistering with sickly foam
Gaping wooden feet
make a see-saw
The rodents perhaps
Maybe fists of air
or just time}

A pale white fountain.

Portraits hung on obsequious nails

{Felicitations, honours, valedictions—
childhood of rusting trophies
splayed on dusty shelves
Ancient, yellow newspapers}

floating in nothingness.

Ashen mirror in the corner

{set off with secrets of
age, beauty, approval,
wrinkles, lips, finger-marks,
splashing and evaporation
Arrogant, opaque spots left behind
Cracks like parched roots}

reflects the burning moon.

A window, a door and
crumbling walls
the keepers.

Can the little room hold it all?




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