By Christopher Courtley
This house, not just in disarray, abandoned and disused,
Is skulking in its slow decay like something long abused.
The darknesses it harbours lay their chill upon my heart;
My very soul their trembling prey, toward which all shadows dart.
Its walls like bruised and broken skin have soaked up misery
And ghosts of malice walk within its halls eternally.
The dust-dimmed panes of windows in each sad room gaze forlorn
On remnants of a nameless sin, on deeds and dreams outworn.
I cannot bear the atmosphere of this house sinking into hell;
It's more than gloom, absence of cheer; it's more than some unwholesome smell
It's more than morning's song can clear away, or sunny afternoon—
Into its murk hopes disappear. In its miasma efforts swoon.
It sucks into its unseen mire all my drive and my desire
In its embrace all aims expire—I languish, though my cause be dire—
I do not—cannot light the fire! Must get away, make my escape!
I run outside—I flee to higher ground, turn back once more and gape—
As gaping back at me my house unhinges now its creaking jaw
And as a snake swallows a mouse, draws me again into its maw!
Copyright 2012 by Christopher Courtley. All Rights Reserved.
I cannot bear the atmosphere of this house sinking into hell;
It's more than gloom, absence of cheer; it's more than some unwholesome smell
It's more than morning's song can clear away, or sunny afternoon—
Into its murk hopes disappear. In its miasma efforts swoon.
It sucks into its unseen mire all my drive and my desire
In its embrace all aims expire—I languish, though my cause be dire—
I do not—cannot light the fire! Must get away, make my escape!
I run outside—I flee to higher ground, turn back once more and gape—
As gaping back at me my house unhinges now its creaking jaw
And as a snake swallows a mouse, draws me again into its maw!
Copyright 2012 by Christopher Courtley. All Rights Reserved.
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