There is a room where everything is broken,
a room where gravity even slips gears.
Scrawled and aborted love poems
have been burned into the carpets
If it wasn't for the empty, cold drafts the air would stagnate
and fall to the ground in thick, oozing clumps.
Flies swarm the red wine that is splattered on nicotine stained walls.
Time doesn't fly here,
All the mementos,
the keepsakes of previous occupants,
have been drenched in diesel fuel and torched by vandals.
(The last 'real' life that has bothered to visit) .
Cold, autumnal sunlight enters through shattered windows,
fractured, sliced, and lifeless on Crystal Nacht floors.
A room frozen,
in the final throes,
Brevet Wilson's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Broken by Brevet Wilson )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(November 1, 1871 – June 5, 1900)
(25 August 1962 -)
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