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This old house dark: dire and lonely,
Queer sounds now park a feel chilly;


Old echoes stray upon the wind,
As if to say what might have been;


Here as you slide on old timbers,
A cold gust rides on odd shiver;


Shadows blunt sight, scent of old stuff,
Eerie the light not quite enough;


Now near your face, moth wings and draft,
Old passage trace of ancient craft;


Curious the pause upon odd junk,
Wonder finds cause to dusty trunks;


And in the dust that floats around,
Diffuse the rust of time once sound;


Years have now wrought an empty lot,
Dread and fear brought this death-bound plot;


Random draughts flow in musky sweep,
Silence now mows a dying deep;


Stray voices creep with lost affairs,
A long-lost sleep trails these old stairs;


Seek meaning here where no soul stirs,
Let mind be clear as fear frames blur;


Such yellow hues of old-time airs,
Crouch mimic cues to dizzy fare;


In these late hours where moon does shine,
Life lost not ours yet all's not fine;


Seek bold refrains where old songs died,
Note once again those eyes that cried;


This journal old: yellow-brown grain,
Last passage told, ink stains etched plain;


Strange edge prompts here an obvious patch,
Devoid of cheer in crumbling stretch;


This old house weeps in forlorn grief,
A massive sleep yet not quite brief.




Leon Enriquez
15 January 2017
Singapore

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