The Room

I hear outside,
beyond these clay walls.
The dull calls of day.
See the grey faded light,
through a white curtain's filter.

I detect echoes of friends
as they bang on their walls.
We exchange comforting calls,
and send simple signals.

Inside the flies fly,
and the bronze wheels tick, in their mechanical grind.
The movements ask why,
and when might the door open and show what lies outside.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.