Day 70 of 100 Poems/100 Days


Start with a room
and give it a name,
and a color to keep it separate.

Fill it with a man,
a table and a chair,
and maybe a song
he can sing.

As he catches on fire,
he says: ‘I would sell it all’.
But alas there is no bidder.

And I watched,
as his two hundred pounds
become only an ounce,
like abracadabra.

Mix the sound of his disappearance,
with the constant rain,
and you’d mistake it for the thunder.

And end with the same room,
rewrite the same name,
as if,
it could never happen.


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