The Ruins

they eat with pieces
of themselves scattered on the floor
with the roses

the empty kitchen
serves only thought and fear, little taste

how many others have asked,
is this a bed
or a boxing ring
(they must ask the person in the mirror,
then they can rest)

the warmth of the blood-red walls
the passion from the uneasy chair
surrounded by the antique
volumes of self-taught knowledge
gathering dust

the sewing machine is purely ornamental
and off on a side track, death
and emptiness

© September 27, 1995 Karen Farrell, all rights reserved

This poem was written as a class assignment in response to an installment at Diverse Works.

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