When I speak of my heart

I describe a

Factory after hours. Light from

Half-open windows

Illuminates the dust

On the machinery

and faces, like rags,

lay scattered throughout,

ghosts of family, friends, lovers,

enemies.

Each one is given is their due

and passed over.

 

In this room, the temperature

Remains tepid, static.

A placid, windless vacuum occupies

The air.

 

Is this a comfort zone or a cell on

Death row?

Is it the bottom of the night where

We hide from blood, from fire, an

Asylum  from the living

Where

 

We are beside ourselves or behind,

in a perpetual, pervasive

Shadow land

 

When

There are wars to be fought,

Children to be protected,

Skin to be investigated

 

All outside the

purview of this room.

 

Yes, outside, far away,

Nearly nonexistent.

I can see it all too clearly.

 

My heart is a room.

I have no use for certain rooms.