Funhouse

There are muffled
noises, and you hide your
eyes in your hands.

There was a tattered and
worn copy of Hamlet
in your bag. I can remember
watching you skim for just
the right
phrase.

The house speaks
in a soft tongue.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

The smell of flesh,
rotting,
echoes through these halls.
My arms sink in
my skin.

I will walk out of the air,
into my grave.

The house creaks,
and it is speaking again.
The doors are shut,
and they giggle when
our backs our turned.

Go, bid the soldiers shoot.

The house tells us
we are not to be,
and our steps
will earn
teeth digging at our
flesh.

Your hands are cold.
My face is cold.

From our flesh, may violets spring.