My Empty House
Saddle sore from riding the dark, but the laggards fall in my dust. As the anvil strikes my gothic inkwell of the friar's pen. But there is no one here but the dark and the moon's monkeyshines knocking at my door. But the dark is no stranger when caressing its shadow. When silently it wheezes as if death looking over my shoulder into my empty house as Mirriam - Webster's ghost. Eying my glossary and pulling at my chains of a wayfarer host.