The day is fading.
Shadows growing.
Across an empty room.
Cold air drifting.
Ghosts in the hallway.
Calling out your name.
Some things are better left.
Ashes in the wind.
I’m out there.
Searching.
Still.
A last stand on this page, or close up the book and walk away.
Sit in the silence.
The grey.
The empty.
Until It becomes you.
Or you become it.
The voice inside screams: you’re not dead yet.
You’re not dead yet.
A last stand on this page.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
