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by Don1

No signs of any usual guests


The huntsman’s chicken burnt back to a shell


The Front of House is unrecognisable


How long dead, who can tell.


The sticky carpet grips my shoeless feet


Fly paper catches my hair


The maggots squirm in and around


About the dead rat in the snare.


No one alive to take my case


The hop’s bell deadened by the dust


The guest book opened at a blank page


The lounge chairs sprung and burst.


My usual room, I guess awaits me


Up the dark and webby stairs


I make my way so slowly


On my neck and arms, standing hairs.


The deep long moan confronts me and


I’m frozen on the step


Not sure if it’s behind me


Or if it’s dead ahead.


An age passes and I move again


Disturbed grime stinging my eyes


My mouth as dry as long dead bone


My ears tune in to hellish cries.


Unable to change its outcome


Every night I make my way


Forced into hellish haunting


They can’t sense me in the day! 

© Don1 2011


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