I Used to Wake In the Cellar


I hated the sound that door made.
Close it fast, close it slow,
The sound was all the same.
This was its signal,
warning not to proceed.
I’m not scared -
done this times before.
To where? I can’t remember.
yet the hand holding mine,
is a hand I’ve held before.

Cement steps leading to darkness,
felt warm and so loving.
It felt a bit like coming home.
T’is all remember’d.
it’s here I would wake –
silence awoke me -
feet now wet and cold –
hand no longer recognize’ the hand it holds -
as if it felt that moment
I’d realized I’m in danger,
The hand then disappeared,
and I was left alone.

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This Poems Story

Ghosts of my mind.