The Empty Room

Old dust settles on the forlorn carpet

Old dust covers a dead bluebottle

Old dust blankets the broken light-bulb

No gleaming future can be found

In the empty room.


Wasn’t yesterday a better day?

A day of such possibilities

Of what might have been

Yet nothing where I now enter is shining.

Just the dull glint of a broken light-bulb

In the empty room.


For what could have been had I raced

Up the stairs I decided not to run

Down the corridor I made sure to avoid

Towards the door I swore not to open?

Would I still be here, simply existing

In the empty room?


Sitting there, I would have spilt everything

Before you, blood would have shaken my heart.

You would have responded, happily

Wiping away the tears on my face.

And we would have shut the door, leaving only the bulb

In the empty room.


But I did not. I turned, and fled

Towards the shadows in an empty room.

And now, no voices call out from other rooms

No shimmering laughter fills the air

All I can do is wait for a knock on the door

In the empty room.


By Mark Sforza


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