– The Unmoving –
I have become rooms within rooms,
moving ever in toward myself.
I have refurbished all of my perceptions,
and struggle to make sense of their placement.
I move listlessly through the confines of my mind,
passing in and out through those older rooms of me,
once bright and vibrant,
now empty and unused.
The floors are worn to grain
from nights of restless pacing.
The furniture is covered in aged sheets,
making haunting yellowed caricatures
of things once comfortable and familiar.
All of my memories have been packed away;
Paper boxes placed high on a shelf
that I could never quite reach on my own.
I know it leaks through in that spot;
I didn’t care as much when I put it there.
I thought that I could reach it again
before the rainy days came to flood me.
Soon the outsiders will gather.
They will watch my walls crumble,
pick the ruins clean of all that I have built,
and I will remain here,
forever unmoving.