Slanted Ceiling by Meagan Hamilton
August 27, 2012 Comments Off on Slanted Ceiling by Meagan Hamilton
The cold tile floor gleams from the lights. The walls seem to tell of things long past. The woodwork is detached in places, the crevices filled with dust. Pipes make noise, and the sounds of the street can be heard nearby.
What hands, handrail, have you had molesting you up and down the black stairs? What shoes, rug, have you endured as they drag across your bristly, brown fur? What collisions, doorstop, have you absorbed as the door with the low knob knocks you in the face? Weathered and stained you are with age, doorstop. I see your lime green slime.
Lonely power socket on the wall, what electrical devices have you given life? Pale exit sign, hanging from the cream-colored ceiling, how many eyes regard your solemn promise of escape? Do the all-telling stairs to your right steal from your glory? Behind you, pale exit sign, the door leads our eyes to a fire alarm. It copies your red splendor, and steals your well-known trademark. Do human eyes notice this before you?
Slanted ceiling, parallel to the stairs, I see how you accommodate that circular metal object in your middle. Do you, slanted ceiling, have any idea why such a seemingly useless device would have been implanted into your being? What purpose does it serve? I see the reddish-brown rust that has accumulated around the metal’s perimeter. Stunning really, in its own melancholy way.
I’ve walked your floor, yellow caution sign. I’ve tread on its tile and didn’t find it to be moist in the least. What lies have they forced you to tell as you face the floor plan of this building, a testament of truth and honesty. That floor plan will forever make a dirty liar out of you as long as you stand there, yellow caution sign. Lost and curious people stop to gawk at the floor plan, seeking its wisdom, and you, pitiful, lying, yellow caution sign, you are regarded first with fear and then with disdain.
Large silver handicapped button, how many souls who punch you, demanding your service, truly need your loyal assistance? What solace do you gain from your noble purpose? Or do the few occasions that you are truly useful make up for it? Not that I can see these occasions happening frequently, as the doors you guard lead straight to the stairs.
© 2012 Meagan Hamilton
Meagan Hamilton is a young adult who loves her dog very much. She grew up in various states, but will always claim Ohio as her own. Being sickly with Multiple Sclerosis and mentally ill from Bipolar, she rarely leaves the sanctuary of her bedroom. Meagan sits alone and types, inspired by the sound of the winds whispering in the trees.