The Mirror
Pitter, Patter, Ratter, Tat, Tatter, Rain falls softly on cracked window pains. The house darkness is solid, quiet as death, it covers all where it rests. BLACK! Among the silver silent willow trees. Above heaven's stars wink on, moon grids sinisterly. Deep in the woods. Waiting. The House is a rambling gothic monstrosity. Mystery of Blackened Wood, Glass, Bone, Wrought Iron, and Cracked Stone. Ancient objects cower in each corner. Shadows lay thick as dust on the ceiling and walls. Thunder rumbles in gray Atriums. Flickering lighting illuminates dry Paintings of Forgotten Nobles. Furniture reeks of Tortured History. Lost voices echo down cobwebbed corridors. Rooms hold lost twisted secrets of families. Long dead wild game cover old oak panels and planes. They hang like someone's trophies from yesterday. A steady beat of something strange. A pulse. Not thunder, a heartbeat! Steady distant in the hall. As if veins have bored themselves into the very wood, like skin, alive and sickened. Running from a Secret Heart deep within this House of Immoral thought. Something roams with blazing points of twin flames. Black Accursed rot! A house of a lost generation full of power and wealth. Once walked these dim halls. They created this malignant core. A MIRROR sits, at the center, in a grand room used for Emperors and such. Reflecting the sages. It has witnessed many a night full of suffering, raining down the ages. In long lost days, many a year has gone by. Empowered with the memories rages! It sits. It festers. It breaths. It waits. It drinks suffering and hate. Shadows are showing only what it knows. Willing to reveal what it wants to be known. Stirring fires of coveted desires, terrible emotions are written in rot. It has witnessed unspeakable deeds of decadent decades. It sits and waits. Yearning to love. To conspire. To contemplate. Waiting to violate. Just an antique object of mercury and glass. Don't believe that. Something ungodly has created its ill-found place. Deep in glass at the epicenter of a subtle storm. It lies in wait. Time passes, for new lineages to come and see themselves reflected in tainted mercury. That will darken eyes fast. It boils. It Bleeds. It screams. A glass demon lies coiled on a dingy ragged rug. Waiting like a foul ancient soul-eating worm. While rainfalls quickly quietly on pointed gothic spires. Pit. Pat. A splattering ratt tat tat. Drips drain streaking into cracks of antediluvian stone, running into this secret heart of home.
Copyright © Poet Tellaferro | Year Posted 2021
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