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Personal Note:

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Poem

Shame and years of tears have hardened like
asylum bread and now the children want
to know of your intricacies Mrs. Billingsfesh.

Along the hallways of this home for wayward
children, how fast will you run?

The children believe you will be possessed of 
a sleek agility that is rare for an orphanage 
custodian of your seasoned years.

Within the dormitories of this home for wayward
children, where will you hide?

The children believe you will have an
uncanny knack of concealing yourself in
the darkest and trickiest of places. Mostly.

Throughout the corridors of this home for
wayward children, how loudly will you scream?

The children believe you will sear your throat and
burst the blood vessels in your eyes with the 
tremendous bluster of your lungs.

Against the doors of this home for wayward
children, how hard will you beat your little fists?

The children believe you will fracture knuckles
and drive splinters beneath your fingernails in 
your feeble attempt at escape.

Below the vaulted ceilings of this home for 
wayward children, how many atrocities will you 
discover as you barrel from room to room?

The children believe you will come upon every
single one of their merry little annihilations.
Soaking, ruined and still. So very still.

Upon the cold, stale air of this home for wayward
children, how long will the perfume of your burning
skin linger?

The children believe that you will burn so brightly,
and for so long that your charred and smokey fumes
will coat these dead, stone walls for eternity.

We have gathered our numbers Mr. Billingsfesh and 
the only thing that is left for you to do, is run.
Down the halls, through the dormitories and out
into the exquisite, white winter night.

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