Perhaps I'm approaching the time to start praying.
Shadows make creatures encroaching on me.
The place where I'm staying is old and decaying,
A tumbledown, crumbling hotel by the sea.

Black-and-white photos in frames are concealing
The stains on the wallpapered walls of my room.
I've fostered the feeling of something appealing
In faces from photos to banish the gloom.

Pictures of actresses lacking their dresses
Attract my attention till terror invades,
An army that presses and strains to bring stresses.
Its gains are alarming on green mental glades.

I turn to the shelf with the statue of Mary
And promise to pray if she offers protection.
I swear I'll be wary of unnecessary
Inspections of photos and further reflection.

The statue sits next to a sketch of red roses
With text from the gospel of Mathew in black.
Stuffed cats with noses in arrogant poses
Encompass the globe showing Prussia is back.

The doors of the wardrobe have lost their brass handles.
I think it's just there to hide cracks in the gable.
Trinkets, old sandals, spare blankets and candles
Are packed into drawers of the oak dressing table.

In hindsight I should have requested a preview,
A look at this room cultivating disaster.
I'd have my nice sea view if some walls were see-through.
They are if you peep through the cracks in the plaster.

Ingrid, the owner, seemed lively and friendly.
The place looked inviting in mid-afternoon.
Guidebooks would send me to somewhere too trendy.
Its charms are effaced in the light of the moon.

There's one other guest and he speaks as he slumbers,
A man who says little but laughs quite a lot.
Amongst the staff numbers are shamblers and mumblers
And one shouting waitress who only says 'What?'.

At dinner my undersized ham was in hiding
Beneath the abundance of peas on my plate.
I'd great trouble guiding the peas that kept sliding,
Evading their dreaded, unsavoury fate.

Ingrid arrived at my table with more peas
And fabulous tales of her days on the stage.
She told many stories of glamorous glories,
Glimmering memories dimming with age.

She spoke of the brilliant directors and playwrights,
The parties with actors amazed at their powers,
The patrons who'd stay nights and help dim the daylights
In men who would buy her gold watches and flowers.

She told me she hoped I would sleep until morning
And not be disturbed by the ghosts who play tennis.
These spirits were scorning her resolute warning
To stop imitating John MacEnroe's menace.

And so after midnight when I heard some noises
They stirred inner voices who'd started to snore.
The wise one despises unpleasant surprises.
I snubbed its advice when I opened the door.

Ingrid was there wearing make-up and ear rings
And delicate articles posing as clothes.
At night when I hear things a frightful bright fear brings
Imaginings of evil pageants and shows,

Spectres and spirits rehearsing in hearses
For grim bedroom farces where young lovers freeze,
Pronouncing their curses in ghost-written verses.
But seeing my hostess was much worse than these.

I closed the door quickly and tried to forget her,
To empty my head of the vision's stage show.
A voice says to let her because it's much better
To play with the mischievous devil you know.

But all other voices reject this conjecture.
I'll stare at a picture and make sure I pray.
I'll write a short lecture on wallpaper texture
And think of my next beer when thoughts start to stray.

But there's no denying my soul suffered bruising.
The vision is dancing in its ghastly light,
Haunting my musing with taunts of my choosing.
Daylight's delayed by a long, daunting night.