No Through Road

It's just off Highstreet, but it's hard to find.
It's always getting dark when you are there;
Your footsteps, vaguely echoing your mind,
Are all that you can hear – the stagnant air

Will kindly strangle any outside sounds.
The narrow pavements touch the houses. High
Up dirty gables, from the lichen ground,
The barred and shuttered windows look awry.

The doors have lost their shine – there are no bells,
No knockers, keyholes, handles – dirty green
Rectangles face the street. Faint musty smells
Escape insidiously. They cause a keen

And wordless fear of things you once suppressed
But that you know behind the faceless walls.
Slow, hollow footsteps that won't come to rest
Go up and down the stairs. The vacuum calls

But as no one will answer or be seen
The farewell meal is daily made in vain...
Then darkness falls around you like a screen;
You stand with bated breath and when the strain

Becomes too much you try to scream. Your cries
Are stifled and before you can regain
Your voice you quite lose heart. You realise
You're bound to meet yourself down Losers Lane.