The front door is off its hinges.

The carpet is weather beaten.

The halls are not unfamiliar,

but memory is locked in a haze

of darkness holding everything

in a sluggish realm of nightmares.


I can smell them, I can smell me

or a something once remembered as

sill alive, in the cushions of the easy chair

over turned and facing the corner

where the television now lay cracked.

Is there food, for I am starving.

All I am now is hunger rather than me.

My feet shuffle in the rotten debris,

where once there was a family.


Then movement, I turn to the side

and shuffle through the door into the room

to stare face to face with my own,

dead and rotting away.


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