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Snow on the mountain. Snow on the drive. The Overlook waiting Like something alive. A boy on a tricycle, Moon on his chest. Riding those hallways That never let rest. His father at the typewriter, Hands white and thin. Like something had found him. Like something got in. Room 237. Black as a bell. Cold as heaven. Deep as hell. A woman in the bathtub. A mouth full of rot. A kiss like a fever. A smell like a plot. A window where no wall is. A feast with no guests. A ballroom all shining With blood in its dress. They say it’s the moonshot. They say it’s the bones. They say it’s a nation Built up over groans. Room 237. Black as a bell. Cold as heaven. Deep as hell. Jack in the doorway. A grin split wide. The axe like a sermon. The winter inside. The elevators opening. Red like a choir. The hotel just breathing. The boiler, the fire. A picture at the ending. A face in the frame. Like he’d always been there. Like guilt has no name. Room 237. Black as a bell. Cold as heaven. Deep as hell. So is it confession? A code? Or a curse? I only know looking Can make it all worse. Some films are just pictures. Some films are a spell. And some rooms stay open Though boarded up well. Room 237. Black as a bell. Cold as heaven. Deep as hell. Room 237. Don’t ask for the key. Some doors swing open. Then never leave me.