I lie on the cool yet dusty old floor
The house creaks beneath me as if alive
A handle slow turns on stained antique door
The candle blows out the flame can’t survive
Ebon air fills my lungs, silent am I
Door’s rusty hinges make audible squeak
A silhouette framed by terrified eye
My throat so tight, cannot scream, will not speak
Could that be an axe, held by twisted hand?
The old door swings closed, ‘tis just I and he
Footsteps draw closer just who is this man?
Or am I mistaken…is he a she?
In solace I’d lain in dust turbid attic
Forever my home…axiomatic
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