Rotation Room

This is the rotation room:
     I'm lost in its attic.
I love it; I hate it,
     I'm just another addict.

A hall to the left,
     columns eagerly wait
beside an endless stairwell;
     each step screams hate.

The room offers me,
     it's broken arms,
as i count each second,
     for the sunrise alarm.

The worlds way of wireing
     the dorms lights
next to the back
     of critical night.

The varnish will tint,
     and tint till noon
as I count each second,
     in the rotation room.

© 2010 The Still Air