Untitled 6

The banister, decorated with dribbling splotches,
Creaks beneath the touch of your soft palm,
Creaks a scream of dead and rotting wood beneath the crush
Of hands which, once more, as they once had,
Press upon the frame of now rotten timber
As you recall the chunks of brain wherein are imprinted
The legions of shame, chanting ruthlessly

by George Cheatham