11 of 30
I edge my way across the floor,
The stour laiden scent of coal smoke lingers,
Their amber fingers barely breaking warmth,
The boards tightened creak,
Echo in the witches hour.
This place, it seems soulless,
For the want of more has given less.
Consumed and victorless,
Some twelve score years,
Maybe a little less.
Time goes on regardless,
With far more notches carved upon its pelt,
Than forgotten cares whispered,
Within it's mortared spans,
Or across it's spell of years.
I hang, upon the damp airs touch,
A silent gag,
As if repelled by some ancient hag,
Who'd been tarnished, respectless,
Degraded to be less than soulless,
By some encountered past,
To fester in this lichened place.
Regardless, I brush past,
The moth mottled drape,
A misfortunate wraith of night,
Standing guard to lost glories,
Seldom witnessed on the back of this,
Condemned, post eviction and entombed, dereliction.
I push on in contemplativeness,
Through the hall of emptiness,
Upon the patina of tarnished steps.
Envisaging from the shades of shadows
This mildew grappled house of old,
In the twilight of its heyday lost