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Contains a perpetual atmosphere yet withdrawn.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