The Swamp, The Deluge

I feel the air tremble, the old house speaks,
Its secret voice, in harsh creaks.
The spirits shift, and toss and turn
I feel them move, yet none can see.
The air grows cold, my breath goes short
I cannot stand to stay at home.

I see hundreds of people every way
They seemingly drift, forever dazed
To me their thoughts are not their own
Their anger, agony, jealousy.
It feels hot on my mind and cold all alone
I cannot stand to be this close

Ancient antique rocking chair,
Humming the void’s eternal buzz
An empty space now left behind,
Where the old woman once sat
Until Death gripped her tight and pulled her down
And I could feel the woman drown