The Locksmith’s Chair

The Locksmith’s Chair

On the shoulder of the M6 gray,

Where fog devours the break of day,

There sits a chair, with iron vibes,

Etched in rust and haunted moans.

No locksmith lives, yet tools remain,

Keys to doors that whisper pain,

Locks that rattle, soft and slow,

Where none should turn, and none should go.

A voic, yet no voice, comes through the air,

A glitching echo, thin and bare,

Like static dragged across the soul,

Or names unread on death’s old scroll.

The figure seated, cloaked in grime,

Crooked by the weight of time,

It turned no heads, yet sees you clear,

And breathes in silence soaked with fear.

The chair creaks once, a summons, deep.

You’ll dream it every time you sleep.

For those who pass and dare to stare,

they Leave with more than a memory there.

Marked out forever and a nightmare ok?

your his tenth victim he fished out this day.

‘Tis now you just need to sit and wait

till death calls for you it won’t be late.