Violate, always too late.

The way it twists the hate,

into something sedate,

to distract from suicide.

I grew from the dark side,

of this Closed Red Door,

the crusted wall

and matted floor.

I am better than before,

But I still ain't right.

Something's not quite...

right

behind this door.

The dust collects like meaning

On the universe floor.

The stars are vague,

and conceal all they know

count the window.

It's ancient in here,

I guess, curling with fear.

The scene is pure suspense.

It's evening now,

the light skids off the glass.

The stairs are untrodden,

he's not home yet.

The dust dances like nothing,

The gloom smells like nothing.

I Feel

Like

Nothing.

He's not home yet.