High Ridden Hostel Poem by Mark Swaine

She has nothing to say,
The world has just ended.
There’s only one place that’s still standing,
Inside is the only room left,
At the end of a
Newly haunted burgundy landing.

Small but nicely isolated.
She always hoped she’d never need
To lock herself from of the outside.
In the sorry words of sooner or later,
She’s booked in.
Now walking up the sore stairs,
Blisters appear on the banister,
The whole hostel bled.
Staring up for eternity on a featherless bed,
Rusty springs pierce the mattress
Screwing her back into shreds.
She keeps from screaming,
By holding on to a thread.

She’s never been here before,
All in good time will she know,
Something for sure,
A good thing is everything,
This place learned to ignore.
If she stays a minute longer,
She’s gonna be trapped.
If she stays too long,
The road to a true destination,
Will be only bit mapped.

Even taste is a traitor.
The previous one who left the wishes behind,
Next to a jagged outline,
Still holds the tinned alligator.
Every swinging of the hinge cabinet,
Can’t find closure,
The flasher in the winter,
Must have died from exposure.

She looks to the window,
She feels the pain of glass,
Stretching thin ‘n’ reaching high.
The glass is tired,
She’s shattered.
Lightening has a quick conversation,
With Thunder,
The noisy clock hand strikes her every second,
But still the time doesn’t fly.

It was the only room left,
So cheap that to her it was free.
She was the only resident,
Hearing shouts and screams,
Through un-trusty locked doors.

The crazy caretaker empties the empty bin,
Cleaning since the day he was born,
Setting out to make things quiet and gleam,
But now he won’t even do anything,
About the dirty tenor-nt who keeps on singing,
About Italian Ice-cream.

She can’t feel safe
Running back to the place,
Where she’s hidden.
Why aren’t there any stairs,
Down out of this high hostel,
Which she now believes has always been ridden,
Full of comers and goers,
It’ll make or break her,
To stand ready to run from the door,
Ready to make a move

She’s just waiting for the voices,
That punch her soul full of gospel.
So she can say her farewells,
To the high ridden hostel.