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The Locked Room
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Poetry There is a room at the end of the hall.
Its door is closed with a deadbolt, forlorn and forgotten.
It's dusty and dark inside, the pink flowered wallpaper peeling from the walls.
Music won't be played in here anymore,
No more late-night talks on the phone,
The walls have soaked up the laughter and tears of sixteen years gone.
They have absorbed the strangled cries of a grieving mother,
And heard the silent weeping of a father without a daughter.
Dolls sit quietly on shelves, knowing nobody will play with them again.
Diaries and drawings hide, keeping subliminal messages secret,
In them lies all the answers to an abrupt ending.
All of them say, "Momma and Daddy... this is not your fault."
And still the wind blows through the curtains,
Making the dust whirl around the room in a cloud of mourning.
Maybe it was something they did.
Maybe it was someone else.
Maybe it was just another case of teenage suicide.
But the room remains locked, boarded up from the rest of the world,
Never to be opened to let the spirit out.
