The darkness has been embalmed,
saved for the dilation of pupils.
Water drops echo the void of ill
illumination, the mossy slick stone floor
is presumably protecting permafrost,
and only a single occupied chair prevents this room
from becoming a black hole.

A whimpering can be heard--like howling
creatures of the night--only muffled
by stitched lips: the victim
of an unperceived reality, a truth only
viewed cinematically in all its maniacal
possibilities.

The drops serve as the only tangible
conception to a propitious reality.
Proceeding each one is a silence
which begs to be the last.

As if it were judgment day, a ghastly mask
presents itself, the demented facade
positioning with its play toy-
                              an intrusion to the daunting
                              muteness voiced more
                              chilling than a southbound wind;

one last whimper-