By Sunny Rey
I too still wonder
about the rooms of my soul
Where do the doors lead
and how about those deserted roads too?
What are my private intentions?
What is it that fills spaces between cells?
Fragments of generosity
stones made of viciousness?
Like the candles burning into the night
it is only a failed attempt at comfort
just as the false repetition of my heartbeat
has me defining that as the only proof I am
alive
For more information about Sunny Rey, click here.
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Another poem from Sunny’s book.
Love the picture you added! Thank you SO much!
Love,
Sunny Rey
Thanks, Judi. Wonderful, Sunny. The thought of what might be down those deserted roads is, I believe, what keeps us alive. Your words and mine have a sweet resonance as on the cover of my most recent book is the snippet, “a word is a room full of doors, a pen a maker of mansions.”