An Old, Old House

Good morning, friends. I have for you today the story of a man, a man who lives alone on a hill. A man whose ever encroaching madness and loss he may never recover from. His mansion on a hill was once his dream, but now the grounds lie in disrepair and the house in ruin. No one knows what’s happened to this once bright, compassionate, socialite of a man. Care to find out?

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How It Creeps

I yearn greatly for something deeper.

Around the wall

grows a twirling creeper.

Through the gates

and down the chimney.

It always gets inside.

“Without proper maintenance…” they might say…

But it’ll always have its way.

As the creeper waxes,

so too does my heart wane,

shrinking evermore, forevermore.

The gates overtaken,

the courtyard is theirs,

the kitchen and the parlor

both fallen to the vine.

My only respite is the bedroom,

our bedroom,

only it has been long since we called it that.

The vines,

how they whisper in the dark,

clawing at the door.

I can hear them growing in strength,

tendrils slip between the cracks.

I dare not move,

I dare not creep,

surely still they’ll be there in my sleep.

They can hear the way the floorboards creak.

Alone, I gaze into that mirror,

that one we shared those years ago

and look upon a haggard man,

one you would not recognize.

He is one that I don’t recognize.

As the vines begin to wrap around me,

I can almost hear your voice again.

I can almost hear the children.

I will join you in your madness.