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  • Allisa White-gluz
    Allisa White-gluz

    The Room Where She Died

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Inglés
I stand, lost in shadows of,
Years of lament etched into four walls.
Like a whisper,
A feverish dream.
 
Where only echoes respond,
I keep asking - how long?
 
This caravan follows a hearse,
Leaving the Room where she died.
Dying begins at birth.
To suffer is the way of our kind.
 
Let lies sit like baskets of,
Flowers in bloom,
Colours bright and false.
She will dance on Hyperion’s field.
 
Where I’m still wondering why,
She hit her head on the sky?
 
This caravan follows a hearse,
Leaving the Room where she died.
Dying begins at birth.
To suffer is the way of our kind.
 
To be alive is only to acknowledge time as it is.
 
Do you remember the feeling of being alive with lightning in your mind?
Sinners and saints join the broken and brave in this memory plane.
We’re all the same.
 
Cold are your nights.
Hours will pass as you strangle time.
Dead are your eyes.
Nevertheless all the corpses still waltz by your side.
 
Pain walks on broken feet.
A broken heart keeps the beat.
Still she hums softly.
 
Looking through cloudy window panes,
Without moving for ever and a day.
Then the light comes to greet her face,
And brush the dust from her broken brain.
 
Eyes say what the voice cannot.
Is this where it ends?
Here, our paths must part.
Just a helpless spectator, am I.
 
And I keep questioning “god”,
To drown out the ferryman’s calls.
 

 

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