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Poem

Now hushed bleak sterile corridors
recall the cries, laughter and tears
of those once termed insane;
all is still now. 
Rooms behind forbidding windows,
shutters slam-dance lazily in the breeze;
all is empty. 
No actual cells, no straw on cruel stone floors
or padded walls,
reality is cracked linoleum and Formica;
all is quiet. 
The local Bedlam towers black,
decaying dead slumber,
etched against a red-tinged horizon. 
No movement now within the confines
of her walls,
other than upon the evenings of the
Autumnal moon, when perhaps
resonances of the past send strange
drifting spectres to walk the balconies
and pace the grey great hall,
acting out the bygone dramas of this home,
this refuge, Asylum. 
Those who would dare to 
venture here
on such tragi-comic nights would see;
but no one comes here and no one sees
and all too few care or understand,
for all that is past are now dead memories,
and all that is to follow
is the truest madness...

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