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The Darkhouse

August 7, 2013

By Sean Michael, 2012

 

The floor is dirty, the electricity doesn’t work.
The fridge is empty–my stomach hurts.
I can hear the chatter of mice as they scurry through the walls,
The toxic laughter seeping down the hall.
Where is everybody?
Trodding with the devil,
In the next room getting loaded.

Ensconced with fragile dreams,
My sister’s body trembles next to me.
She’s cold–I cover her with my coat.

I still remember the darkhouse;
Fiends crusading through, sails at full mast.
They smile grotesquely on their way to the next room,
Shuffling through the dust,
The steadily crumbling dreams.
Sometimes they notice us,
But nobody pays much attention.

In the near silence I listen:
Evanescent hopes…
Withering smiles…
To the oracle of a cold and lonely place,
As I try to fall asleep on the hardwood floor.

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From → BLOG, Poetry

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