The crumbling house with crooked walls,
Invites me to enter the coffin door,
Naked trees now dead, once tall,
Like sentries stand to guard the moor,
Windows full of forlorn faces,
Stare through teeth a gnashing chew,
Slithering snakes rise up in hisses,
The smells of children’s burbling brew,
A salient cemetery of suffering voices,
Its moans and groans of scratching nails,
From pounding lids that speak of choices,
And rail complaints of timeless tales,
I think this year I’ll pass the door,
Avoid the eyes of goblin shadow,
To close the book of snarling lore,
And gaze upon the pristine fallow.
