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.