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We see more demons here than vast hell can hold Pacing down halls with cracking paint and rotting wood; We hear echoes in the far reaches of this asylum— Of footsteps, chains, and screams of the condemned. Pacing down halls with cracking paint and rotting wood, We know we’re not alone after hearing the stories Of footsteps, chains, and screams of the condemned. It’s as though we’re decaying with them. We know we’re not alone after hearing the stories That they’re whispering to us through crumbling walls. It’s as though we’re decaying with them, Losing our identities in this purgatory. That they’re whispering to us through crumbling walls, Revealing their unrest, unsettles us greatly and we’re Losing our identities in this purgatory. We feel cold, and— Revealing their unrest unsettles us greatly, and we’re… —we hear echoes in the far reaches of this asylum— We feel cold, and— We see more demons here than vast hell can hold.
Poem & Photograph copyright Sasha Agins, 2008
