Monday, 26 September 2011

The First Coach of the Morning

A deathly silence
In a waiting room,
Like everyone was leaving for good;
Itching and shuffling,
Itching and shuffling
In their there seats.
Creeping eyes,
Creeping spidery eyes,
Creeping spidery eyes on doors
And walls,
On windows;
Digesting my substance,
Sucking it out from my skin,
Leaving me wrinkled and empty.
Creeping and slinking,
Like a scream
The creeping slinking rustle of a crisp packet;
Creeping and slinking around the room,
From their bench over there,
By the stairs;
Where the stares breed stares.
The creeping slinking rustle
Like the pitter-patter of mice feet.
I sit, unnoticed, seen,
And ignored,
With every inch of me examined
And judged.
The sun sits on top of me,
Baking me,
Like a meringue,
Slowly, so ever so slow,
And the silence only gets louder,
And the stares become sinister
As paranoia creeps up the stairs;
And I sit there baking alive in the sun,
Half dead,
I sit there and I don't move,
I sit in silence;
Just a fly on the wall.

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