In this room, the walls whisper secrets
that no-one should have to tell,
sights and sounds of yesteryear
fall in the darkness,
like flakes of rotting paint.
Close your eyes tight,
can you not hear her screams?
The pleas of a despairing soul,
forever being beaten down
by the eternal hatred of another.
Open your eyes now,
adjust to the gloom,
can you not see clearly
the ominous stains
that the peeling wallpaper reveals?
Be at piece for a moment,
let the stillness flow through.
Underneath the happiness,
can your soul not sense
one hundred years of despair crying softly?
Thousands of lost voices
imprinted for all eternity,
murmur just below coherence,
from walls not intended for
the burden of the tortured loneliness.
Imprints of sorrow
on a morbid frequency,
in dull, brown rooms,
carrying the weight of the dead,
that the living long vacated.
Honorable mention
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