How is it that a building
Of plaster, wood and stone,
Can fill the air around it
With malice all its own.
How is it that a structure
Of brick and glass and slate,
Can have a brooding presence
And radiate such hate.
How is it that the rooms therein
It's stairways and it's halls,
Seem more to be of rough hewn flesh
Than ceiling, floor and walls.
How is it that the musk of time
That marks the air within,
Brings to mind the stink of sweat
On bloated unwashed skin.
How is it that the draughts that creep
Round window frame and door,
Can take the part of ragged breath
To soul-less life ensure.
How is it that from floor to roof
From basement room to eave,
It whispers of a jealous heart
That will not let you leave.
Don't ask me how a building
Of plaster, wood and stone,
Can fill the air around it
With malice all its own.
I know not how it happens
That a lifeless house can wake,
But I beg you do not enter
Lest it prove your last mistake.
COPYRIGHT D M PAMMENT 2009
Comments
shoe | December 29, 2009 - 18:24
like the creepy atmosphere this creates, some building's do give you the willies don't they? inexplicable...:-}
kheldar | December 29, 2009 - 19:05
Thanks for that shoe. Indeed they do, I actually wrote this while in a waiting room in a mansion type house converted to a medical facility - the walls really did seem to be made of flesh... ughhhh x