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But the Room is Empty

By Lorenzo Santos Palmer

A setting sun, filling the room with red.

Outside is filled with life and sound,

The crying bird, hamer on lead.

A plane passes, distant engines loud.

But the room is empty.

It’s gently peaceful, simply quiet.

And the room is so filled with so many things.

A lopsided painting, above the bed.

The well loved maps on the off white walls.

Art half completed on the desk,

Adjacent to a stack of unread books.

A pair of leather boots, on the floor next to a bag.

The early stages of clutter, nowhere near its zenith.

Yet the room is empty.

It’s missing something, someone, anyone!

So someone enters.

Swing the door open, then shut it.

Sigh, pause, sit.

Grab a book and begin to read.

Filling the room with thought, consciousness, life.

Still the room is empty.

Knock, turn, look.

Invite them in and say hello.

Ask, why are they here?

Simply to say it’s late.

And it’s best to go to sleep. But they stay for a while, and talk.

Conversation and laughter fill the room.

And for a moment…

But then they leave.

Again the room is empty.

So sleep it is, and climb into bed.

Turn off the lights and close the blinds.

Then the simple gentle darkness.

The sound begins to fade.

The objects disappear.

The quiet breathing slows.

And the mind begins to clear.

Drifting, floating, on the nothing that is

The thousand thoughts that swirl

In that endless electric expanse

Ponder on the unending universe

Relive six thousand days

The fading past

The unknown future

The single present

The darkness illuminates for the mind

The endless possibilities.


Only now the room is full,

Filled with imagination

Which slips seamlessly to dreams.

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