Room 11

No number,
Only a yellowish faded square
marking the white paint.
I open the door.

Damp smell permeates,
musty, earthy, tinged
with stale rosewater.

Single warderobe.

My reflection
peers out behind the cloudy glass.
A small crack reaches
down from the corner.

Archaic graffitti,
Paul 4 Linda
An artifact,
scrawled in biro.
Old love
corroding.

Single window.

Outside,
the grey sky,
the dustbins,
a ramshackle tin hut.

Roses litter the carpet,
climb like ivy up
crinkled wallpaper,
damask red, entwining,
forming an impenetrable hedge.
One hundred years
entombed,
anticipating.

Single bed.

I lay down
Acrid scent of decaying
cigarette smoke
and silence.