Footsteps echoed on the floor
Closing in, unhurried and certain.
Who’s coming, Love or Death
You cannot guess. Within the walls
Of old bricks and values
On a bed unslept for ages
A guitar rusts unstrung.
Films of dust thickening on it.
Footsteps unhurried and soft
Down the corridor, closing in.
Forgotten spider-webs
Hanging empty from the ceiling,
Their weavers gone or dead,
Like this dusty walls and the room.
Who’s coming, Love or Death?
Do you know who’s coming? Thick blood
Flowing out from your heart.
Then the footsteps stop at the door…

5 thoughts on “Footsteps

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