Unmade Bed

Alone
In the darkness
That is there
Even when I turn
The lights on

Will it happen again?

The bedroom
With unmade bed
and scattered papers
With unfinished poems.

The spooks.
The imaginary friends
who threaten to kill me.

The blood on the walls
The noose
hanging from the  light fixture.

It is not the same
My thinking is clear.
My house is clean.