A candle sits
Alone in a dark room.
Now, look!
Over there!
Where the cold breeze goes free!
A black rat crawls by,
Past the forever closed door.
But, like always-
A man knocks quietly on the other side
Through the window,
A black bird can be seen!
Resting on a thin branch,
For eternity?
While, the candle-
On its wooden stool-
Sheds a dim light across the small, locked room where I hide
To me,
With everything lost that will be never found,
I have forgotten what it is
To be free
-So let me be!
Let me sit here by myself,
With the candle giving me all that I can call wealth
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of the Broken
PoetryThere are voices that cannot be drowned, and writings that cannot be burned. That is because they have found worse and have slowly learned. And this is true. From them, comes the Collection of the Broken.
