Dead Relatives And Moldy Glasses Poem by eve Taylor

Fancy they were,
with their,
silky red velvet walls,
lined with,
gild golden trim tin,
along top,
near ceiling walls,
matching the lines,
thru winding halls,
leading round,
to around,
theater's of attraction,
one show,
to absurd's next,
an old lady,
looks at me,
although,
she's not,
what she appears,
to obviously be,
a compalation,
of what meets,
nasty and sweet,
I tell her lies,
although,
I always know,
my abiding demise,
she graciously accepts,
I wander off,
seeing everyone all,
weirdly,
represented as,
children,
blond short haircut's,
blue eyed wide,
telling secret's,
stories and more,
some of which,
forbidden lore,
I smile,
I nod,
patiently am I,
thru a rotting,
mirrored,
in their pooling eyes,
I wander away,
in search of a drink,
bottles everywhere,
I search for a glass,
all moldy,
in cupboards all,
with no sink in sight,
I awake,
with no drink,
sober enough,
to remember,
a reoccurring night.