astor (from Artemis Sere’s “Xenomorphine”)

this place

stinks of atrophy
and darker days,
skeletal structures
swept dry by swill rain
and howling winds,
allowed to rot
alone and forgotten,
lessened yet strong
tall yet sullen
silent yet
the walls
bleed with stain
and the pain of
offering wide shelter
to the wayward, and
solace to dark shadows
with flapping wings
that stalk the dripping
floors and peeling
the dead walk free,
frolicking in the outer mist
where hope has gone

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