The hall doors move in shadows, in shapes;
Magnified, hinges, and their rusted pins, and silver cogs, metamorphose across the grey; tiled floor:
The ball room light hangs in abstract, spidery balloons, between an artwork of oil paintings;
and the dark dust balls wisp in and out of the golden pupils like portals; piercing the minute holes,
in symphonies of sound; and splintered dances roaring through the gap, and animals of sound closing the chapter of molecules; and dancing in frenzied stars of space.
Shadows; colossal and charcoaled in with lines, print ever-present into the angles of the room: Tiptoeing in their ballet shoes, pointed towards the sharp pain of the door: creep behind me; And begin to whisper in my sewn-up, little ear; and slip into my blouses, consume my throat:
Sleep in my inner machineries and unclothe me, strip me in tiled streaks; as the thin shades of oil, pencil their solid wood in the little door: and line up in plastered hedges of fountain pens. Yellow, crimson sunset looms in rainbow-coloured tinges, in the cracks in the walls: and lights my breaths with cooled fire; with tinted woe.
The doors falls open in a dramatic curtain of trapdoors, and optical illusions; and as I blink in the rich, bright light: the secret stalkers melt away, and I realise in the emptiness of my hollow stairway of insides; I am living Amongst Strangers: And they abandon me to the barren darkness of loneliness; They digest my ruin.