Intrinsic as the Motive

Intrinsic as the motive
There was breathing in that room
Empty, though it was
Of person or machine
A tension and release
That was the pattern of those painted walls
More sensory like second guessing
Than sight or taste or touch

The door, from outside
Was a challenge just to find it
Once through it, though
The exit became too obvious at once
And almost necessary
As if the room enjoyed
A certain solitary haughtiness
In its own bare and stoic way

The emptiness did not digress
Even upon my entrance
And though all in me called for fleeting
I pressed ignore and put it on 'silent'
My heart itself then raged against me
Speeding in increments aligned with
...what can only be some ticking
Cast by the memory of a foreign time-piece

The room itself contained no clock
No past or future
And my watch had stopped upon entering
Putting my nerves on edge
Like the pages of a mental calendar
Combusting to a soundtrack of heavy breathing
That deep and heavy breathing

It was not processed or helped along
Not pure as mountain air, per say
Or sick like a city tailpipe
Not nicotine'd or hollered out
But simply heavy in its own right
From the chest of some giant
Thought

And in its presence
I held my own breath and listened
Till my pulse slowed
Till my eye-lids rose
And I saw the room
As it always was
As it truly is
As it will always be
For those who pay attention:
Without walls