Nothing here is sacred, safe or sane

or so we’re led to believe

by the shadow standing in the corner

yellow-eyed and smiling

We shake ourselves awake and rise

heart pounding as we sleep our way ahead

to the family room of the old house

where we held hands in the dark

speaking sweet to the dead

listening out for the reply of the candle-lit board

who spoke words to us, we were young

we were a shadow in the corner then

when something rose up and sundered the chair

and left three large gashes in the back of the seat

which was firm against the wall

and our flesh ached from it

after all the terror, the lights came on

and we had those three claws running down our back

bright red stripes, almost burns on our young skin

then came voices in the depths of night

conversations from below, as if whatever spoke had more to say

and would stomp its way up the family stairs

thirteen heavy steps, then would rest and watch us pretend to sleep

and whence we played hide-and-seek

the old woman in a gown crossed the hall smiling

and we could see through her, we children

and asked about her to adults who became ghost-white

whispering to one another if someone had told us their mother had died soon before

and would walk the halls smiling, having forgotten all things, then forgetting how to live at all

portraits would come alive and be merry, which was fine

they would wave and we would wave back

and knick-knacks would climb down from their shelves

dancing their way over to our bed

where the dark-haired young woman lie wreching at our feet

she was too ill to look us in the eyes, but only wept and spat from her fours

and waited for a moment to vanish even after the lights came on by our sister’s hand

then, as a teen, we saw hell’s face so clearly

in the red-glow of a clock out of time

and the people laughed and cried downstairs in the dark, but we were braver then

going down to see if they’d speak

making them angry at our trying

they gave chase, some awful creature

the head of a lion and the body of a man

on fours, he twisted up the stairs

and we pounded on our foster parent’s door for help

at fifteen, sobbing and kicking that door with full-force and no reply,

as if God said they should not help, I’m glad He did

as the thing watched with a satisfied stare from the edge of the stairs

and then we were taken up from our bed

and shown many things

in a barren land where the dust choked us

all of the evils gathered and charging forth

and all of the Children shone bright under the heavy sun

with swords in hand we flew to bring Life to Death

I suppose that’s happening now

or we’re crazy,

or we’re unsafe,

or we’re sacred