Broken Poem by Brevet Wilson

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
with bleach.
If it wasn't for the empty, cold drafts the air would stagnate
coagulate,
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,
it limps.
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,
and falls,
fractured, sliced, and lifeless on Crystal Nacht floors.
A room frozen,
in the final throes,
of entropy.