Disorganized euphoria;
nerve endings sing,
exposed,
and oozing blood cells call your name.
This is a strange place;
the door stands open, and is locked.
You do not belong here,
but this place has summoned you,
absorbing you into itself,
the mirror digesting the reflection.
Nothing is in order now,
but entropy bring stability to this weary house.
What you see
may not be what is there,
but for purposes of the experiment we will say it is real.
The scent of salt hangs heavy in the humid air,
for the house is, after all, a ship,
with sails raked back stylishly,
which sails without end
upon an inner sea.
His handwriting struggles, cryptic,
across the pages;
it is scratched into the floor,
in arcane letters and strange words
which have called you here
despite the intervening gulf of years.
The words tilt, drunken, on the page,
as crooked and unbalanced as this house;
some randomly enlarged while others are fanatic, small.
When you awake, you will believe this was a dream,
this aging house, this mirror, this reflection;
but you will have blood on your fingers.
I've never been much for poetry, but this one just seemed to arrive in the form of the first four lines, from which the rest of the poem grew. Like a weed.
Set, if you could say it has a real setting, while Batman reads from Amadeus Arkham's journal.