The Black House

Here’s a darker poem than what I normally post here.  I’ve been reading Neil Gaiman, who inspires me sometimes, when I’m in a more January place.

Sometimes I live in a black house
I don’t know why
sky blue walls turn to charcoal
and the ceiling is
a starless, moonless sky
the only light is
a dim, red bulb
in the corner
so I don’t fall
down the stairs.
I don’t know why.
It just happens
maybe there were
too many hard glances
from my love
or
a friend
broke my necklace
or
a man with
worms in his hair
brushed against me
for whatever reason
the house is black now
but don’t feel too bad
for me
I have company
the ghouls are playing poker
the spiders prepare
black pudding
with their many arms
and the wraith
the wraith
who looks
like my love
just put out
the light
and invites me
downstairs.
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