UNTITLED

a red curtain-torn, askew, made ashamed
as an insult to hang low, abused,   unloved

from within these four walls lies the stink of
the stale breath-overcome with the moss of age

and as the silence surrounds, it lets out a baleful sound
that screeches of jagged glass teeth-exposed, ready to bite

to the coldness that remains intact, over a once held claim lost
to time and space, where only now, live the ghosts holding court

by Michael Perry