A slice of toast,
burning on the grill.
A ghostly face,
the window pane,
terror running through the brain.
A shadow that was moving,
now is still.
Darkness hoovering the light,
and all that shun on Blackrose Hill.
Floorboards, creaking,
then they're not...............
Hiding in the pantry,
with a stomach tied in knots,
Churning, like butter in a ***
That old house on Blackrose Hill,
years since left to rot.
That old house on Blackrose Hill,
that old empty cot.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
A slice of toast,
burning on the grill.
A ghostly face,
the window pane,
terror running through the brain.
A shadow that was moving,
now is still.
Darkness hoovering the light,
and all that shun on Blackrose Hill.
Floorboards, creaking,
then they're not...............
Hiding in the pantry,
with a stomach tied in knots,
Churning, like butter in a ***
That old house on Blackrose Hill,
years since left to rot.
That old house on Blackrose Hill,
that old empty cot.
