This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

Light puddles on the floor,
Crawling along the wooden slats
And bleeding down the cracks
To nowhere and somewhere
And anywhere that
Starts
Right
Here.

Mellow honeyed scent
Of angels that
Sings streaming through the window
In the daytime
And seeps across the moon
In the nighttime,
I breathe in the soot on the
Hearthstone of
God's heart
And am not fooled by the
Glamour of a dusty bulb
Beneath the ancient, yellowed shade.

If I squint,
Does this light not yet fool my thrumming pulse,
And kiss my dreams of safety
In the dark?
But yet those monsters lurk
And laugh
And gibber up the stairs
Where the drooling continues
And the white fingers still skitter,
And yet my chair is no longer
My refuge.

The chill on my neck
Is at bay in the shadows,
Awaiting a run and a thrill
Through the melted wax of forgotten candles
That could not hide their slobbering kisses
Of lecherous sucking
And pain.

Hands off
And away,
You shall not touch me!
Here I stand in electric light
And wait for the dawn that never arrives
And the rise of the moon
That has hidden its face,
And I'll dance 'til I'm weary
And then stand 'til I'm faint,
And then pray for the sleeping of death.

For I'll not let the monsters slither into the light,
With their hands of slime
And their rotting flesh breath,
And their fetid, acid sweat.

Whilst I stand in the puddle
And wish for my chair,
I will squint and I'll sing to myself.
For the song in the false light
Is the saviour of all
Who cannot hold hope
In their broken hands.

I will stand.

This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen