The Attic.

Rumours abound deep within
hollow cries of yesteryear,

shackle
the truth,
fear

the embrace.

The monotonous rain congealed,
each drop splays the floor
in sequence

the chimes of the clock
mocking all who sleep below.

Time ravages all who come to pass
yet welcomes with a splendid hello

for here lies hell
the prison of my mind
uncontrolled

I and I alone.

I pace once a year through empty spaces,
banging my head against their door

the momentary shadow
talks to me
as I watch from the attic window.

I am the sequence of events
murdered in dreams,
the black and white smudged

inherited from demons long settled.

The caricature of life
captured by the lonely descent
of every passer-by

their prayers unanswered
laced with venom

choked by lore and prose

their God in my hands
as I sever each throat

including my own.

©2008 Michael J. Earnshaw