Saturday, April 19, 2014


A Room
By Diana Mary Sharpton

A chair, dresser, TV, steamer trunk and bed,
Four pillows on a king to lay her head.
Life occurs within these walls and vanishes,
In slow motion, like a movie that metamorphoses.

Sweet jasmine lingers, a perfumed mode,
In clothes, hung by color, where the sun was sold.
Opaque and secluded, shades always drawn,
Contains a perpetual atmosphere yet withdrawn.

Dust settles in thin layers as days pass into night.
Any change is entailed not contrite.
A refuge without statutory rubrics,
In a room, that bears her fleshly forensics.

It’s a place that hears her tears,
And knows the truth mixed in with fears,
It’s where she runs and hides,
A room in her name written to the side.

© copywrite By Diana Mary Sharpton

1.) Photograph: by Diana Mary Sharpton