A Writer's Paradise

 

I think of naught but an empty room,

A seat, a table, and a hanging candlelight,

Its walls are painted dark,

Images of the reaper, a lunatic’s ramblings, and a ball of hearts,

It’s full of paper, some shredded, some folded, still, some ripped apart,

A holy Bible, a Lutheran hymn book, and Paradise Lost,

It’s ever dark save for the hanging light,

Pungent at times, sparkling at night, and gloomy at best,

Am sitting in a corner levitating in the room,

A black hoodie, some grey sweatpants, and a pair of headphones,

This to me is the world,

I see the light as my long-lost naivety,

The rest is what I’ve become,

With a firm grasp on reality, I see how these two battle out,

Routing for none but recording every single minute of the tussle,

I don’t see good and evil, or beauty and beasts,

I don’t see love or women,

Or dreams and nightmares,

I don’t see wars or ills,

Or all that’s real,

I see everything else,

Nothing's absolute yet everything's stitched so intricately,

I see the beads and the strings,

That makes or breaks who I am,

And the cord that when I rip,

I can lose all I am,

I read the Psalms when am down,

Amazing grace when am up,

And then behold the walls,

I see what’s coming to me,

Death if am lucky,

Or inevitable craze,

That’s the room I envision,

At times I can’t catch a break,

My heavenly sanctum,

A writer’s paradise.

@Job Kerry