Little bits of doggerel litter the floor
of the dark, mostly empty warehouse-like space,
caught up in snags of cobweb and dust they tend mostly to the corners.
Like a weightless structural component, the occasional
shaft of sunlight arrows down through the faint haze
and lights a rectangular patch of scuffed wooden floor.
From outside, the faint cry of sirens wanders in
through who-knows-where, competing with the random
whispers and creaks of a building well past it’s time.
Random racing thoughts, like trapped and panicked
pigeons, sometimes burst for no apparent reason from
the shadows of the rafters to dash themselves crazily about.
But eventually the thoughts settle, and a relative stillness
descends once again, where just the dust mites and perhaps
a stray downy feather drift in randomness on unseen currents.
There’s a box in the middle of the room — a crate really.
Made of rough wood and standing both taller and wider
than a man, it dominates, somehow looming bigger than the room itself.
In red letters, with a drip or splot of messy paint at the tail
of each letter are two stenciled words on each of its four sides:
“The End” it says, as it sits, foreboding. Oh, how I long to open it.
By Tim A Hologram