Darkness.

'Who knows I am here?' I often wonder aloud,
and sometimes I ask the lizard on the wall,
if she has it in her to gather for me a crowd,
lest I be carried out of here by a bearer of pall.
In a rounded spot of sunshine all day I sit,  
watching the yellow circle in the ceiling,
on my legs the red marks where he bit,
in the sunshine sparkling, but never healing.

Around the room I never find anything new,
but each day I check every familiar corner,
in the chair made of wood destroyed by dew,
I give up searching for freedom any longer.
For I know there is nothing in the old clock,
nor any secrets in the sodden, forgotten books,
in the broken chest hides no key to the lock
nor any hope that lurks behind the rusted hooks.

How many months it has been I cannot say,
but each night my spotlight grows smaller,
it disappears, my circular yellow throne of day,
as the bats outside begin to screech and holler.
The last shadow on the wall becomes darkness,
and by footsteps I count my remaining seconds,
the creaking door is thrown open into this mess,
and the sound of his boots so loud then beckons.

The white light of the moon he holds in his hand,
and into my eyes it shines so brilliant and bright,
each particle of dust in this invisible land,
quakes in fear as he brings the promise of night.
A decrepit creature I crawl towards the demon,
that comes to befoul these damp insides,
and in this kingdom bereft of the heat of the sun,
the will of the evil man with the iron fist presides.

Underneath that fist I find my face and soul,
when with smoke-scented fingers he touches,
as I lap the dirty water out of the white bowl,
routine and habit of fear become my crutches.
As he watches my face I wonder how now I look,
right before with me his insatiable lust lies,
an unrecognisable creature from the one he took,
looks back at me through his dead eyes.