My all in ruins,
my inner sailing in a lonely space.
Will I ever turn to face
the body’s burnt necessity? Here,
there are squalls and squalor,
which I’m much too squeamish for.
The door is open,
the lock is broken.
Everything I’ve spoken poorly of
swarms the room and dooms me
to repeat the same several thoughts
I’ve ever had.
Born under a bad sign.
A dazzling gloom, commencing.
3 thoughts on “Squalls and squalor”
“The door is open / the lock is broken” a repeated image from my dreams. What does it mean to you?
I wish there was some deeper meaning to it, but this a pretty literal observation. My bedroom door has a non-functioning lock. In the context of the poem, the image carries an implication of vulnerability. Doors typically offer a sense of security, but not in this instance. Anything can get in or out.
Interesting….and I thought you were a master of metaphors, lol. You are right about the vulnerability thing.