Drifting Through The Lonely Room 

Sara L. Russell (mid 1990's)

Drifting through the lonely room
I seem to hear a voice in my ear
I thought I heard her mention the glasses
the small glasses 

she kept in the cabinet;
but it doesn't matter
her voice is still there, 

with some other faint voices.

Drifting through the lonely room
I see a hand under the sofa
a black gloved hand, waiting like a spider
a disembodied hand, 

black fingers as legs
it no longer cares now
but it lives on, zombie-like,

beyond the body's departure.

Drifting through the lonely room

I float near the ceiling.

A half-face watches me

 from between sleeping tomes;

books silenced by dust and indifference.

who are they, hiding,

these morbid piecemeal jokers, 

awaiting my scream?

Drifting through the lonely room

I sense their silent laughter.

Two shoes show beneath the long curtain

an arm haunts the shelf

 like part of a statue,

while, in he fireplace,

an unseen body of evil 

is poised to emerge.