Time is elastic
and I can only see
in black and white.
I dream of a witches hollow, of dark claws.
I dream of blood soaked carpets, of shadowy figures.
I dream of dark rooms, of a million doors
and staircases to nowhere.
The neat packing paper of the day
has been ripped
and now I’m a stranger
in a strange land
Are these echoes of a distant memory
or a dream from another dimension
Worse still, am I the killer or the killed?