Room and Door

I'm working on my sonnet form, again, this time with fractured sentences. I generally dislike poems that break sentences between lines and verses, but I'm sure it has its value. I just need to discover it. Also, despite the despondent content of this poem, life is quite good. Dark poems often come from the most cheerful days, I find.

Room and Door

If every doorway opened on a room

as bare as this, then what would be the shame

of shutting it again? This is a tomb,

and here, the candle was not worth the game;

a sputtering flame splaying finger-light

upon the pale shades of pictures-hung,

when solitude has followed on the night

and dismal sleep, subduing one last sung

and sorry lullaby. So speak of lush,

abundant furnishings if it will please,

but speak of these illusions with a hush;

my weary mind can hold no more unease.

This room may, one day, want a bright decor,

but until then, maintains a bolted door.