First Night

Dreams of a far off distant place,
Dreams of home.
Patterned green and patterned red,
And worn down to the foam.
Smells of fumigation linger,
Sealed off by the door.
A lighted room, a bloated moon,
A darkened corridor
Ventilates insomnia, rebounds off frosted glass.
Window like a guillotine,
A frame that never lasts.

The welcome sign is rusty now,
The people long since gone.
The bell that broke the silence
Has corroded with the storm.
The aftermath of echoes lie,
Glued to peeling walls.
Somewhere in the darkness
A lonely figure calls.
Underneath the stars at last, it’s maybe not too late,
But lampposts chase and follow me with eyes of neon hate.

By Rob Houghton