Room

And sour dimness of the double windows,

All secrets and forgotten memories are held.

All the triumphs, glumness, and vexedness that comes with life,

Are in the steady, still, and teddy stuffed space we call comfort. 

In this torturous loving chamber, we have aged. 

We perceive this area as a bowl of bright and homely oatmeal.

While the insides will forever be built of guilt, gloom, and grieve.

This is where we waste our timeless time.

As the bed lay silently, we alone are to blame.