I begin to wonder about
This room.
The gray room with
High windows.
How did I get in,
Or how do I get out,
Why do the stolen men,
Melting into the gray,
Ignore me?
On one wall is a faded image,
Like a thin layer of paint covers it,
Or barely rubbed away.
It is what seems to be
A door, wait, it is,
It is the door.
But the door is boarded up,
Handprints cover the wood,
Handprints inked in blood.
The prints are mine,
So why am I
Here?
