Alone in a Room
I am talking to myself in a room I'm not in.
Has it been this way since the beginning?
Or was it the end?
Sometimes I can't remember,
and sometimes I'd rather forget.
Is that what I meant, or am I meant to be
someone else, somewhere else, or nowhere at all?
The walls hum with memories faint and cold,
a mournful sound, like the laugh of a child,
now grown old.
Fragments of faces, moments, and dreams,
shifting like shadows, choking back screams.
Is this my design, my purpose, my fate?
Or am I just passing through someone else's
rusty gate?
The floor creaks beneath the weight of
thought, a labyrinth of lessons I never sought.
Every corner turns into infinite paths,
each one reflects the questions I've asked.
What if I am neither lost nor found?
A feather caught between sky and ground?
Just suspended in the space between sound.
A symphony unbound?
Between silence and scream?
In the echo of a forgotten dream?
I reach for the air,
-a phantom limb's despair-
but it slips away.
A ghost of a touch, a voice in decay.
I know I've been here before, I swear I have,
but the details fade-a glimpse of a face in
the window pane,
a fleeting thought like rain on my face.
How did I get to this place?
Is there anyone on the other side of this door?
Or is it just me, asking for more?
Are we bound by time, or are we free to
choose?
Or are we just waiting? Hoping not to lose?
Am I the architect of my own decay?
Or am I just an actor in someone else's play?
A moment frozen, a thought undone,
an echo of what was and what is to come.
Am I real, or just a reflection, or a ripple in
time's cruel collection?
I chase the echoes, but they scatter and spin.
I'm talking to myself in a room I'm not in.