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Poem


Despair awakens in this barren world,
Like a long sleeping serpent,
Opening it's large orb-like eyes,
Illuminating the darkness that surrounds it.

Fixating it's gaze upon the golden light,
That seems to pierce through the stained glass,
Sketching a darkened shadow,
Across the dingy carpet,
Of this old forgotten room.

The smell of roses fills the space,
Very enticing to the senses,
Yet nauseating at the same time,
Creeping deep into the brain,
Planting it's roots,
And sapping out life.

Upon the bed are dried stains of blood,
From a past horror that claimed a life,
A tragedy that was left to fend for itself,
Screams stifled by the cries of the ages,
As blood spattered the walls.

This place really has no name,
Supposedly once a lavished inn,
Sometime back in the forties I suppose,
Back before the ill-fated curse,
Had taken hold and transformed it,
Into a house of nightmares.

Death has crept here,
Yet never fully left his mark,
Chased off by the unwavering light,
That dangled from the almost caved in ceiling.

Many hearts rested here,
Long forgotten lore,
Of the depressed and down trotted,
Hoping to find some peace,
Only to find a prison of their own impending doom.

At night, possibly the devil's hour,
Blood streams down the windows,
With an icy breath,
Making the room dark and full of lurking beasts,
Painting the faces of victims across the floorboards,
Only to be driven back into the abyss,
As morning's first light pierces the stained glass window.

The house will perish one day,
But the memories it holds,
Shall remain trapped,
Forever playing out their role,
As they take shape,
Under the light of the fading moon.

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