My soul roams in the pitch black.
Lost, broken, seeking shelter,
in between cream cracks of old paint
and the smell of water-soaked wood.
Empty hallways,
art ruined from decades of no attention.
Hallow figures trapped in time.
There is no place to stay safe.
When the moon cradles the clouds
is when all of them come outcrawling.
Creeping closernot making a sound.
Only staring with their wide lifeless eyes.
I wail and wail.
Yet everyone just stares.
like puppets on strings.
Looming just to be there.
Empty.
Empty.
Empty.
