This house is old and falling down;
The taps don't work and the waters brown.
Mould and mildew lingers here,
as it grows like morbid fear.
Blood seeps into the floor,
the wood it creaks and screams for more.
Shadows converse on rotting walls;
they yell to us, their hollow calls.
Friends of blackened eyes, of bloodied fists and cheapened lies.
Into the void we shriek, and so comes forth our friends, ununique.
Our circle now grows, in infectious prose,
until it breaks and takes our breaths away.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (This House by Anna Writer )
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