Dark Poetry: The Night Manager - By Leigh.

The hotel, nestled at the top
of a steep hill.
Rooms like brown boxes.
Uninviting. Uninspiring.
The night manager sits,
behind the counter.
Filing his nails like sharp
blades, glinting in the poorly
lit foyer.
His eyes, dark and soulless.
He awaits females checking in,
alone. Vulnerable.
His skeleton key, safe in his
pocket.
The maid, thin and angular,
Carts the laundry down to the
basement.
A flash of light hair and fair
skin, once kissed by the sun,
peeks out from under the
white, cotton sheets and
towels.
The night manager awaits his
delivery.
His fang-like teeth, ready.
His eyes, blood red.
Room 26, once occupied, now
empty.
The sign at Hotel Baskerville
Flashes VACANCY.
Neon blue. Cold. Calculating.
The end of the line.

Not a lot is known about our poet. A rather secretive soul, residing in Colchester, Essex.
Perhaps her poetry will tell you more about her than any bio ever could.
She has a love for the macabre, gothic, Victoriana, erotica and death.
Rather gentle, rather shy, avid metal fan.
Need she say more?
Enjoy…
For more of Leigh's poetry, find her at:
https://www.instagram.com/prelude_love77/