basement:

The light shone out below the door.

Perched like a carrion bird atop the wooden stairs.

Their wood flaky with rot.

Nothing was immune to decay, they were dying proof.

Evidence that even after you were torn from the earth,

death is still a process.

A thud rings out above, 

if the room weren’t steeped in ink I’d surely see my breath.

There were places men weren’t meant to tread,

things we weren’t meant to understand.

Fear lays its icy hand across my brow, 

it feels like my mother.

A push from the nest before a catastrophic fall,

never able to spread your wings.

A thud,

then quiet.

Somethings aren’t meant to be seen,

they’re meant to be felt.

Losing my sight was a blessing I’d learn.

It set me free to scream in the dark.