The first room: unfurnished,
a sad look of adolescence burning,
bright jerseys made dull with time,
screaming, screaming, screaming,
the stench of month old sweat and
grass,
I get out of there fast.
Two more rooms: messy, untidy,
but the bed still appealing,
windows themselves in asphyxiation,
screaming, screaming, screaming,
as if they were never looked after,
I get out of there faster.
The last room at the end of the house,
dark, shadows, dark shadows, cobwebs,
the feeling of death upsetting,
screaming, screaming, screaming,
the murder of the house,
but
I’m the one wearing the shroud.