Cacophony

This old house dark: dire and lonely, ***** 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