Closed

Shadows of swaying limbs
dance forlornly upon drawn curtains.
Windows cease to be functional;
doors remain shut.
Candlelight shyly fingers lonely guitars
in dusty corners; stars in themselves…
now docile.

Music is thwarted by
broken speakers, rhythm halts at mid-beat.
Photos fade to deadened images, once a part.
Mental shelves become heavy with added occupants
sagging from the extra weight.
Poetry composes in my mind, scribbling jumbled
thoughts of senseless gibberish into a
vaguely coherent collection of crap.

Mirrors secretly depict one who defies reflection,
one who cannot see, who does not exist.
Dream's disguise becomes reality,
easy to understand, a cinch to cherish.
Awakening's burden is not readily cheered,
for eyes are sometimes better off when closed.