Precious Things

by Fallen Angel

Our souls crave attention
Love, desire, danger and drama
roil about on the seas of that hunger
Inside each of us, though,

is a simple room
Vast, unfurnished,
adorned with no mementoes
no souvenirs, no echo of laughter past

to be rekindled in a sidelong glance
Outside this room
the darkest solitude,
the bleakest hours of the soul

We know, somewhere
within us, are transitory
”This too shall pass” in time
regardless the depth of our despair

Inside, though, in the room with nothing,
we find ourselves at long last
see our reflection,
without makeup or mask

Our true visage is determined there
in that room of emptiness
painted in the shades of those who can never return
Our true heart found, always broken, always healing

There, in the formal absence of precious things.