The House


There is a house off a wooded drive.
It looms against the swaying trees.
No longer is this house alive.
It now grates beneath the breeze.

Alone it stands amidst a glade,
A tangled footpath long forgotten.
Like a tooth that's since decayed,
Enamel ate and rotten.

A draft exhales through fangs of glass,
From depths as black as ink.
Somewhere there, a monster basks.
It whispers from the sink.

There is a house off a wooded drive.
It looms against the swaying trees.
Nobody leaves this house alive.
Nobody.

Not even me.

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