The old man lived in a cabin
At the end of the woods.
The logs are cracked and decayed,
They slant like branches would.
The door is ajar,
Leaving a dark cavity
To show me what’s inside
It will soon be no mystery.
Stepping in I hear the clock
Ticking like an unstopped heart.
I hear the loose papers ruffling restlessly
The papers with the blue-red ink clots.
The dusty typewriter assumes its position
On the shaking table edge,
The corners of the books are bent
Prostrate, on the window ledge.
A glass, stained with the ****** residue
Of stale, musky wine left on a chair
Reminds me of the chilling fate
That, to me, never really seemed fair.
This assemblage of antiquities
Stand here, as a memory, like a shrine
We all leave an indelible mark here
What marks will be mine?
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 5:19 PM UTC
The old man lived in a cabin
At the end of the woods.
The logs are cracked and decayed,
They slant like branches would.
The door is ajar,
Leaving a dark cavity
To show me what’s inside
It will soon be no mystery.
Stepping in I hear the clock
Ticking like an unstopped heart.
I hear the loose papers ruffling restlessly
The papers with the blue-red ink clots.
The dusty typewriter assumes its position
On the shaking table edge,
The corners of the books are bent
Prostrate, on the window ledge.
A glass, stained with the ****** residue
Of stale, musky wine left on a chair
Reminds me of the chilling fate
That, to me, never really seemed fair.
This assemblage of antiquities
Stand here, as a memory, like a shrine
We all leave an indelible mark here
What marks will be mine?
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