The Anatomy of a Bleeding House
Cold floorboards groan beneath
the weight,
Of shadows trapped inside the gate.
The walls are bleeding memories
past,
In rooms where dying breaths were
cast.
A sudden chill, a phantom stride,
With nowhere left for you to hide.
The staircase creaks without a
foot,
And all your courage turns to soot.
The mirrors distort a twisted face,
That claims this dark, forsaken
place.
You hear the latch, you feel the
dread,
The house belongs to what is
dead.
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