Empty Furnished Room
by Odin Roark

Tonight
Heavy eyelids succumb to fluttering,
Then rain showers of thought,
Meandering tributaries,
And finally,
A river his heart to forge.

Stepping stone’s precarious words
Laid carefully, affording pathways
Through rushing emotions
To mind's quieter listening banks.

Only yesterday,
Bridges ceased to be,
Mud and leaves merged beneath,
Finding haven as living residue,
Memories of former times,
Now but chaotic currents,
Sweeping out to sea.

Above it all

The timing of sun and moon
Unravels its inevitable tide,
Simple as a fraying tale's net,
Where no amount of tying
Or untying
Can detour
An evolving destiny.

Night remains.

Relief for some,
A merciless river of time for others,
Its clock of darkness meandering downstream,
Allowing daylight numerals to jettison,
As oncoming night hours' accumulate weight,
Anchoring beneath one's pillow.

Here…

Where peace seeks respite,
One’s sleep ebbs and swells like historic hunger
Drifting from memory’s gluttony,
To the jetsam of life’s waste.

Night's soul-captive war
Battles against ether's healing attar,
As time's eternal jasmine,
Whispers the fragrance of resistance.

On occasion,
Morning's all night persuasive bouquet
Assists passage to the other side,
Disarms stubborn locks,
Opens driftwood-laden eyes,
And discovers mind’s home
One’s empty furnished room,
Always anxious to be filled.