The Unbreathing Room, Or, What the Cobwebs Hold

He said, "Inspection."

Like it was just some space.

But the ladder groaned,

a complaint, a grimace.

And the smell. Oh god,

the smell. Old paper, sure.

And something metallic,

a faint, sickly cure

for what? For time?

For all the things

we put away, to climb

back into our rings

of memory, unbidden.

The single bulb, a cruel eye.

Shadows long, distorted,

where old hopes went to die.

A box, no label.

I kicked it with my shoe.

And then, a child's drawing,

yellowed, almost new

in its fadedness. A house,

all crooked, sun with spikes.

And dust. So much dust,

like tiny, gray likes

from forgotten hands.

The rough wood, splintered,

a warning. And the chill,

even here, where summer entered

through a cracked vent.

I don't know what I seek.

Just something to discard.

This air, it feels too weak

to breathe. Too stale.

This room, it holds its breath.

A slow, quiet horror.

A kind of living death.