"Pour out your soul to an empty room"

The hovering text on the wall scrawled by God’s bejeweled pinky finger reads as such, “pour out your soul to an empty room.”

“Regal me,” He thunders; a shockwave that causes your twisted fish eye to roll in it’s socket while seething over the poorly lit and worse attended venue.

Once again you hear the bird.

The one who perches on your moldy sill and sounds off at all hours. You’ve told him to shut the fuck up in every language you know curses in, but he only speaks what ever doves

speak.

Once you found a sort of respite in mimicking his cry, waiting for him to register the strangled notes, and watching with glee as he cocked his confused head. But the mirth fades like a dying star and, whether in silence or cacophony…

All you’ve got is the one empty room.

I tell you the truth; the room will never fill cause while one hand was writing the other was poking holes in the floor with it’s middle finger.