The heat and the dust
Like a heavy quilted blanket
Over your mouth.
The creaking of the rafters in
This old worn out theater
Like old ghost stories, coming to life.
When you can breath
It tastes of rust and mold.
The lights squeak as you adjust them,
Not sounding any different
Than their rat friends
Who leave marks on the wires.
Cobwebs cling to your sweat covered arms;
The spiders who built them,
Dead for years, are not left homeless,
By your intrusion.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryThat are probably terrible---------- By reading this, you are glimpsing into my very soul. It's messy. It's emotional. It's my thoughts and feelings poured out on a screen. This is me. Highest ranking #10 in poetry
