The Bermuda Room

by davidchrzanowskipoetry

The train hisses my name as it rattles by. Sweat drips from the ends of split hairs into my listening ear, hooked to the vibrations-turned-voices, sounding clearer, or more muddled, it is too hard to tell – the lost meaning of words repeated over and over. My bedroom door remains shut, even with the expectation of a timely disturbance. I only hope the gap between planed wood and carpet is enough to keep the beings of the night at bay. While others dream of presents and joy, I lie in wait for the arrival of the unwanted coming on the midnight train. Mushrooms grow in the moonlight’s glow, through open blind that I left too late to close. The texture of earthy slime beneath bare skin makes me recoil and shudder, too fearful of the lurkers in the cold. I wish away the endless night. We call this room: the Bermuda Room.

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