The blackened bones of skeletal trees have been painted with a thin brush on a Wedgewood blue sky. Orange wisped clouds puff across an empty carpark from the incinerator’s belch.
Notice of demolition pinned and flapping in the breeze.
The door has been shut but is unlocked.
The interspace between our worlds is ill defined. It’s easy to get lost.
Trapped one side with no means of return.
A narrow corridor.
Locked doors lining its walls.
A small window.
That won’t fully open.
Closing in on you.
Desperation to leave embraces you.
Even I suppose possesses.