03-05-2014, 06:51 AM
A house in autumn talks with quiet bliss,
an old and ugly witch, uncaring for
its grim appearance. The ancient dead hiss
of victims lost in time and space anew,
with each glass frame or tile shook by wind,
disturbs a necking kid. A naked sinew
is draped across his girlish lover's toe,
like morbid lace in its buckled embrace.
He screams, she jumps, they look like nervous doe.
She slaps him, hard, across his crippled face,
suspecting some prank. The sinew is gone.
The bleak and dusty room is all that stays.
A house in autumn keeps its moulding lawns,
once gaudy with light, and now black as pawns.
an old and ugly witch, uncaring for
its grim appearance. The ancient dead hiss
of victims lost in time and space anew,
with each glass frame or tile shook by wind,
disturbs a necking kid. A naked sinew
is draped across his girlish lover's toe,
like morbid lace in its buckled embrace.
He screams, she jumps, they look like nervous doe.
She slaps him, hard, across his crippled face,
suspecting some prank. The sinew is gone.
The bleak and dusty room is all that stays.
A house in autumn keeps its moulding lawns,
once gaudy with light, and now black as pawns.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe