The Quiet Room

The Quiet Room

There wasn’t a sound in the quiet room.
There was no one around in the quiet room.
As the stuffy air recycled in the midst above,
between and choking lungs with iron fists,
stillness swept along in the quiet room.

Night after night. And day after day.
There were no children allowed in the quiet room.
There were no feelings allowed in the quiet room.

So quiet it was, not a cricket nor a mouse,
dared to tiptoe about in this house.
Shadows lingered from the windowpane,
long lost still,
left without choice or will.
The quiet room was always sealed.