The room is big and boxy,
old, and dusty, and filled with
lots of corners and squares
and great geometric arches.
The windows are tall, and big
and very thick and dusted,
decorated with curtains of
wispy tattered spider webs.
The ceiling soars high,
like an ancient stone
cathedral’s, and green
copper bells hang in
bunches from up high,
like rusty bananas.
The room is filled with boxes
and wooden crates, the boards
dry and rotten and the cardboard
stiff and stale. Some
are open, tops torn
apart and covers lying discarded.
Others are closed,
with wax, stamps, paper,
and twine. All most all are
covered in candles. They are
tall, thin and spindly, they
are thick, fat and stout.
Some are etched with strange
symbols. Some have been
lit before, their wicks black
and twisted, wax dripping
down their sides to splash-
on the dusty stone floor.
Others, have never been
touched, or show no sign
of it. They stand tall and
perfect, covered, in dust.
Along the walls are
calendars. Big, small, garish
and bright and ancient
faded tatters. They reside
there, pinned to the
stone like butterflies
to corkboard, and will,
for a long, long time.
Until the last day has
been crossed off and
the last candle has
been lit.