Room 205 Poem by Alan Halford

What could walls tell now of Dylan Thomas
speak to me of love and death
of madness of a kind he sometimes knew
beneath the paper cracks of genius

nothing left in his decay only
ghostly words once played so well
on an old typewriter with some letters lost
and he blunted by another whisky
embraced a welcome rush to die
and cut the loss

as floor boards squeak in vain
little drama left to fit
the bill in Hotel Chelsea.