The dark room

I will try to clarify this thought
dedicated to an empty corner of my room.
or maybe not.
you wouldn’t understand it as I do.
there’s a ghostly existence printed on the wall.
maybe it’s a shadowed enthusiasm of faded reality?
that’s it.
that’s me.
in silence, stranded between the walls.
I try to talk.
my mouth opens and closes
with creaking reminiscent of the door half open
while the wind makes a whistling sounds,
creating fait accompli.
a graveyard atmosphere.
I’m bringing the temptation near my lips in awe.
taking a drag… or two.
words are becoming silent curses of a reasonable suspicion.
with an angry expression on my face
I’m trying to hide the pain for fear that I’m acting insecure
because now I’m a broken face of someone who doesn’t exist—
a lock without the key.
a weakness.
my voice is captured in vibrant darkness, my body sighs
and in the cloud it defies gravity.
excess of energy,
of pleasant condition…
excess of spiritual playfulness.
captivated, I’m seeing the silhouette of a woman.
she then quietly disappears.
she escapes the irony.
this room is too big for me now.
it’s an exotic place to manipulate my feelings
with thoughts of high illusions.
why am I here?
and where is a safe haven
when you need one?

©Tom Del Braco