Room 641A

It's just poetry

Yellow door, Tile floor, No locks, Single-key
And the hallway outside is lying,
Dead in the quarters.

“So,” you almost hear but
Of course, cannot (why would you want to?)
“Do you know why we’re here?”
The door inflates and deflates like it’s excited to find out

And behind the door they are only men, and
They flip switches and scroll down terminals
That look like tea coming to a boil.

The whole time I was a frog burning, I was in
Indiana, already too late and too poor.

In a moment, you will become the wall
And be afflicted to know so much, to have
Every word coursing through you. Your
Pulse will be like a yellow door. Your face will be
Monitor-lit, twisted up. You will change
Shape and color a hundred times to keep with the
Words that cascade across your scalp and down your
Skin and you will be Bold and Italics and
Slam your face into your Keyboard time and
Time again. Your vision will grow splotchy
And Sick and Colorful And groaning
And groaning.

When you will lie outside,
Dead in the quarters,
You will drip away into the floor,
And become simulacrum.
Your drops, your pieces will find their way
To the pipes and the cables
And be fed to the room to find out
It was what we are here for.

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Thanks for reading. Inspired by something I read the other day. Probably wasn’t important. Much more poetry on my page.