Subtle dreamboats,
a sweet devotion gone away.
Forgotten dolls eyes on mornings rosses,
my silent opera on display.

My glossy veterans of war torn times,
songful soldiers if you will.
Hundreds, stacked upon heaping mounds,
guarding dust about my window sill.

The dimmed lights above my loft,
serve only to aid the faint.
But on cold nights, in candlelight,
are not without complaint.

Gasping for breath,
the walls have no more time for fables.
Only to peek through posters ends,
praying to turn the tables.

My confines bears certain qualities,
ones strained so only few may see.
But beneath the clutter, the mess, the dark,
you’ll be lucky to ever find me.

 
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