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A Dusty Room

There is dust here, and dust there. It smells like emptiness: it fills my lungs, soaking through to my blood, and pumping deep into the withered chambers of my skinny heart. These walls have long been painted a faded hue of happiness, a bright shade of nostalgia. His precious jewel (shining red, white, and blue) hangs above the mirror; to me, it was always a jewel lacking luster. I see my broken reflection, and my tears almost sneer as they roll like thunder: You were happy once. The masses cried for peace and you had it once. The light beginning to pour in through the drapes is clouded and as thick as a smoke, dark and hissing. The sort that eats at you. And burns at you. And cuts you, and me, inside. The sort that sits me here, waiting for the past, remembering the future, while it snatches you away from mine. The sort that leaves me, today and thereafter, only, and simply, to dust.