The First Coach of the Morning

A deathly silence

In a waiting room,

Silence

Like everyone was leaving for good;

Itching,

Itching and shuffling,

Itching and shuffling

In their there seats.

Creeping,

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,

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.