four bare walls
erected like porcelain sculptures
shaping into a hollow room.
a lone chair sits.
the gentle breeze
tumbles across the invisible mans face,
emotionless, unattached, empty
like the room.
Walls, once splashed in pale yellow, dancing
now barren and white.
He leans out the window
to catch the August rain.
Autumn arrives,
the orange sun sets,
a beaming beacon in the window.
still, the invisible man sits.
the panes of glass
chime sweetly in the wind
tolling the passing of time
as distant thunder rumbles.
teardrops stain his face
falling heavily like the rain,
silently breaking apart
they land in the windowsill
he shifts back to his chair
body trembling, he lowers himself
in a gesture, the tears are gone
he becomes one of the walls
in a hollow room
a lone chair sits
an invisible man once stood
nobody knows what happened.
You have quite, an imagination! But this critique, is not, invisible. Your poem to say the least, was very interesting!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
it's a amazing thriller... as the man lose his last dropp of emotion he turns into another wall of the room... great poem indeed. keep it up! ! ! !