Endless doors, empty rooms.
The polished floor of a deserted corridor.
Not a breath of air, nor a whisper of sound.
Nothings changed since in this desolate place.

The Organised mess that once crowded these corridors,
Simply swept clean and thrown out.
The Endless murmur of thoughts upon the wind,
Silenced by the overpowering distortion.

A single mural remains.
Plastered onto wood that calls itself "Door".
Brand new this door is. Only recently opened,
Yet it already has its label. "Memories".

It never closes properly,
And not a single key I posses,
Will lock or unlock its cursed mechanism.
All it seems to do is leak a new mess.

Sounds, sights, smells and tastes seep under,
Onto the perfectly polished floor.
Only for me to mop them up again,
Knowing once more they will return.

Nothing can seal these cracks,
They slowly grow, but as they grow,
It all flows slower, but with more purpose.
A steady flood.

And so I am my own janitor,
My own cleaner and mess maker.
One day the endless task will cease,
And along with that task, these corridors will cease,

To exist...