The wallpapers are peeling of the walls of this den
It’s smells like fungus
Piles of clothes from people long gone
A ray of light escapes through the cracked glass
Its photons hit the ground and hurl back
Dust on the mirror crowned with armatures
Creaking floor
An endless path to the door
Linen covers
Newspaper headings scream Lindberg
Another Emmet Till
Sand drifts down in the hourglass
Then comes the blast
The future will become the past
The first will come last
He becomes hast
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