There is a room in my mind that has no windows or doors.
It has no color–walls stripped bare and blank and empty–
like a force of nature decided to strip a home of its humanity.
Life has left the hallways and spaces of this place.
There is no frame or shape that can explain the barren structure left behind.
It has no name.
It is the definition of “nothing.”
Noise bounces off the foundation like a soundproof room, and leaves no trace of voice.
It is the little hell that keeps people from seeing God or faith in living things.
It is a piece of rotting wood, not good for anything.
This place in my mind–this deadened wood that has no purpose–
permeates my definition of life.
It reminds me of the pressing feeling that nothing lasts and everything fades to the past and pushes people back
until they can’t see color anymore.
It’s a black and white world.
A Poet's Pen 