Home; a duplex.

28.04.2019 20:51

It’s the same kind of precious crazy.

A last warning that no longer offers hope.

A warning of faint whispers and shadows.

Silence is a small breath of despair,

drowned out by the damned and the wicked.

Rats crawl over it with their filthy bodies.

But filthy bodies don’t crawl: they slither.

Off they go into the gloom like old snakes.

Up snaking stairs and through walls of dust.

Four walls we once guessed were a safe house.

A house safe from darkness like twinkling stars.

There are no stars here because we know better.

Even though there is no better anymore.

It’s the same kind of precious crazy.