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/