Krimpley House

By a great lady named Lana.

L.T. Garvin

He is alone in Krimpley House

playing vampire beats on the piano

around the dark winged instrument

the walls recede…

Upon the decaying oriental rug

the shells of insects

turn to dust

the windows breathe heavily

beneath the drapes of time

and lean toward the tilt

of a groaning, crumbling foundation

Do not go gentle into ruin, dear house

it’s rather like the old man, aging and stoic

alive in the corners of time

with every creak of a chair-worn intrusion

Epochs come and go

amid piano strains

tempest winds beat the house

clutching to tear it apart

at the very seams

The music meanders, seduces

seeps into the patterns of the rug

pumps stale blood

through its corridor veins

in honest horror

Krimpley house breathes

for centuries more…

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