Grey Room
Tweakers and sliders
prop up the walls where I live.
Mumbling madly,
falling ‘round addictions:
minds as solid as a sieve.
Not killers, nor thieves
guilty of crimes
much too weak to forgive:
sliding upon gloom
up to my grey room.
There doors close from inside,
finding no sanctuary;
watching disinterested
as the floor yawns open wide:
not wishing to be rude,
I acquiesce.
Sitting down to eat, I
swallow futility as my condiment,
with the last of pride.
Now that's gone
maybe I can starve.
Peace at last,
in my little grey room.
By Jeanne MacGregor Lahn
This poem was written by Jeanne Lahn on Feb 15, 2007.
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