The Room

     The closed door seals the room away from the world.
A broken window, boarded up now, used to promise freedom from this fate.
     Darkness dominates the detached room, concealing the terrors hidden among it.
But this eye can see beyond the veils left there to block our eyes.
     It sees a death. but, in that death, it sees life come.

     Blood stains the broken knife on the ground.
A struggle that was never won, it seems.
     A flower blooms in the broken sunlight seeping in from the broken roof.
White is the color of the flower, as expected.
     A special flower, white with a dark core.

     Broken boards of various types of wood lie scattered across the small floor.
Some are charred, black like hate.
     But the fire that caused the hate was not hateful itself.
It was a passionate fire, that burned red, yellow and orange.
     It was a powerful fire, the fire of love.

     No flies circle the long dead corpse.
The man that lies here gave life before death.
     But no broken knife took life from him.
A sword, honorable and strong, lay beside him.
     The blood left long ago, for it was not worthy.

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I thought I would write this story a bit differently. It looks like a poem, yes, and it might be considered one. But I wrote this like it was a short story, just separating the different sentences and keeping it short and sweet. Tell me what you think! It keeps me going and helps me get better (critize away.)
-Zero