Robin Brown Poet Free verse

The Archival Extraction

The air in the basement archives 
tasted of rotted velvet and wet 
copper. 
A low, wet breathing synchronized 
perfectly with the rhythm of your 
own pulse. 
Skin-bound ledgers bled dark, 
viscous oil onto the warped oak 
on the floorboards.
The whispers began, raspy 
and toothless chanting your 
true name from the shadows.
You looked down to find your 
own fingers drying, flattering, 
and turning into yellowed 
parchment.
The emergency exit signs bled
into a deep, sickening crimson 
that cast no light.
Something tall, loose- limbed,
and blind crawled upside down
across the ceiling timbers.
Every exit had vanished, replaced 
by endless, towering stacks of 
blank, waiting tombstones.
Needle-sharp, paper -thin claws 
drove deep into your shoulders 
from behind.
The entity peeled back your chest 
to index your beating heart under 
CLASSIFIED!.

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