Run.

11.04.2019 21:43

A cry of horror, sharp as a knife,

offers hope no longer.

A last warning coming somewhere from over the trees.

Desperate. Damned.

The silence drowns it out with background noise:

faint whispers, hissing shadows.

 

I take in a small breath,

listening for something. Anything.

Through the window, the night garden looks imposing.

Wicked and crawling with rats,

dust collecting on the gorund.

 

This was supposed to be a safe house but no;

we know better by now.

The worst of it is,

It’s the same kind of precious crazy.