November 1, 2011

She, lifting the latch on the door,
thinks, maybe, she might know what’s
behind it, naturally.

Though, no, she can’t see through
a single window. The opaque rectangles
long since fogged over with cobwebs,
and grime, and dust, and hair.

The house has fallen into disarray, light
might be peeking through some corners,
cracks;
she thought she saw some yesterday, scuttle
across the shadowed floor.

A cloud is in the
house, and it’s suffocating her.

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