B Flat

In shadows cast by flickering screens,
A wayfaring stranger wandered through the dreams
Of rooms bedecked with lavish flair,
His every dime spent at Wayfair.

His heart once housed abundant hope,
But now it dangles from a fraying rope.
With each click, a joy, a chair,
A bauble bought, but cupboards bare.

Through halls of mirrors, illusion’s feast,
He piled high the gilded beast.
A chandelier, its crystals gleam,
Yet in its light, no warmth, no beam.

The sofa plush where he never sits,
Stares back at him, a counterfeit
Of comfort, for the fabrics fold
Around a life now stark and cold.

Once a king in his domain,
Now a prisoner in purchase chains,
Every parcel, every box,
An echo in the empty locks.

Outside, the world turns cold and gray,
Inside, he’s lost, the wanderer’s way.
With treasures stacked against each wall,
He owns the nothing, the all-in-all.

The stranger’s eyes, too tired to weep,
Among his wares, he’s buried deep.
For all he bought, nothing can clear
The debt he owes to his own despair.

Silent now, the checkout chimes,
The final sale in broken times.
His wealth, a whisper, gone astray,
A wayfaring stranger, lost to Wayfair’s sway.

** DISCLAIMER: I’ve been playing around with ChatGPT and this was generated by a prompt I gave it. As with any large language model, it has seen remarkable improvements over the past year. I’ve paid attention to its poetry generation in particular. Rhythm and rhyme are much better than they were.