ROOMS - Part 3 of The Poets First Love Story

by Alfred Harrell
(Greensboro, NC, United States)

Caught in an E4 emotional tornado he screamed out to GOD for salvation
Salvation from a series of Ides of March ending in temporal devastation
Divine intervention sent him into mental rooms of long forgotten yesterdays
Closets with louvered closures of cloth; curtains of pure white
Spotted with bloodstains of guilt only to be cured with bloodstained nailed hands
Holding his hand in his as he cried the preacher man prayed as his brother
Poured teardrops from the teapot of the water basin of his soul upon the floors
Upon the floors of long forgotten yesterdays in mental rooms
Rooms where trust must now shake hands with love once more
Rooms where honest reflective introspection must now replace a tear drenched spirit
Rooms where inner peace must now bury the Ides of March in an unmarked grave
Rooms where the man he was and the man he might be becomes the man he is
He like she wandered highways of love, lust, lost
Dropped breadcrumbs like Hansel and Gretel of the Brothers Grimm fairy tale
In a woods of southern pine trees
Woods of southern pine trees often bend to winds of change
He like she bent to the winds of life but refused to snap, break like a dead oak tree
Treasures they accumulated; hid in rooms entered only in dreams
That level of sleep that mimics reality; reality fictionalized by a Hollywood movie
A Street Car Named Desire, The Notebook, The Vow,
Vows of forever cleverly played by the card dealer Father Time
The Space Time Continuum doesn’t always lead Back To The Future
Don’t beam me up Scotty! He said.
I’ve found intelligent life here within the space of my mind and heart
The voyage home has begun with my being transported into the rooms of my heart
The she who was once part of me and the me who was once part of she
Are now exploring the rooms of the poets first love story