Who’s house, who’s door, who’s window pane,
Who is she that does not know I’m here.
What light above illuminates the autumn night in darkest state, What sounds drowned out the silence that she fears?
I violate the boundaries of her private space.
Her dusty hallowed picture is on the wall,
She’s peering down from high above the mantel piece and I, can feel her watching as I’m creeping down the hall.
The air inside the house is almost stifling,
It smells of cedar blocks and old perfume,
It burns inside my lungs and yet it dances on my tongue and I can taste it as I enter in the room.
And there she lies so still, alone and helpless,
As I take another step toward her bed,
Quite surprised am I to be that she has taken leave you see because she’s inexplicably, undeniably….unmistakably…dead.
To be continued…. ; )
© Ken Darville 2011