Devoid

Sunday, December 21, 2003:

Sitting in a hotel armchair
The elevators whir and beep,
Like a room full of critical patients
Who can’t decide whether they are dead
Or asleep.

Drip, drip, drip claims the ice machine
As it hums softly in the corner,
Converting all that it liquid to solid

Faintly comes the sounds of a television
From a room far away;
The words too thin to carry
Past the tan striped walls

Slowly beats my heart
As I gasp at the thin empty air

The light shines brightly
Through the cracks of the doors;
Some go up
Some go down
Others go nowhere at all
Chris // 12/21/2003

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