black feathered wings stretch out, and out; in rigor mortis, held by hanging wires above
workbenches topping thin-wire cages--no occupants but bones: artifacts
whisper "how long ago?" to still snarling forms of passionate threat, mid-strike, mounted
upon the desks: once-bright knives and weird contrapts, chemicals in disarray, charring runs
where sinister or mournful acts once took the stage-- clatter shatters thick silence
it is only papers underfoot; only the complaint of ancient floors;
a fury of upturned books and broken glass on stairs that wind toward some looming fenestration overhead, overcast with gloom
from glass marbles in a lizard's head to the coarse fur of some clawed paw
wainscot below deep inset panels; dusty light from mouth-blown panes in painted iron muntins
smelling air with after-odors of the chemical decay and stares that silent scream
why is there no door?
11/5/2024
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