here i sit in this old
house it moans and creaks
maggots seep through walls, infesting,
crawling on broken wood.
this Place, It is haunted,
left to the lingering dead.
the halls are. the walls are—dead
fragrant must lingers for old
times of domestic bliss, not haunting
cries of sorrow and condemned creaks.
under laminate planks are rotten woods
with roaches a’ nest and casual to infest.
a down-payment It was, just for this infest.
for possibly a marriage left for dead.
carefully laid, a glossy wood
turned to cracked, sagging, and old
beams that give and creak.
when a presence walks upon—hauntingly.
it’s late. i, awake… listening to Its haunt
alone in the bed we infest
with eyes open to every creepy creak.
when i wake, will you be dead
like all the rest? to be old,
to die and become one with rotten wood.
somewhere, a yellowed wooden
panel is graced by Its haunt.
leaving you with an old
fear. It rolls in your throat, infesting
your brain with child-hood terror – dead.
stories are heard with each sickening creak.
so, listen to the cries and creaks
feel the icy, trembling wood
smell the spirits, see the dead.
understand why It haunts
and calm the infestation
for you are soon to be dead too
lost in time. lost in the old
days of joy and infesting
love…forever doomed for the haunt.
Kelsey Mae is a 21 yr/old student at the University of North Texas; thriving poet, poised ballerina, and plant enthusiast. I enjoy watching documentaries with the subtitles on, while sipping on a smooth IPA. Edgar Allen Poe, is who I’d most like to meet and it would be great to be adopted by Dita Von Teese. I aspire to run a small publishing company and be a poor poet for the rest of my days.
Images captured by/courtesy of the author.