Friday, 9 May 2014

The Room Elsie Visited Every Day of Her Life

There was a room,
Elsie visited,
Every day of her life.

As adult, as child,
As widow, as wife.

It contained a shell,
With a jagged hole,
Which contained soap,
Upon a hair,
Upon a yellow,
Porcelain bowl.

This room she visited,
Every day of her life,
Sometimes twice,
Sometimes thrice.

There once she confessed,
To herself,
All of her sin.

There once she wept,
And there,
More than once,
She locked herself in.

In this very room,
T'was that Elsie left,
This world, this spark,
This life bereft.

That very room,
With toilet bowl,
She flitted consciousness,
And traded,
Her soul.

Every day,
For seventy two years,
Elsie visited this room,
With all her fears,
Laughter, tears,
All her love,
And all her wonder,
All her precision,
And all her blunder.

Twenty six thousand
And three hundred days,
Elsie visited that room,
That room,
This room,
That room,
Where we all,
Expel waste.

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