It was a home,
A lovely, warm home,
Never just a house,
That was built here.
A small, quaint home,
Made with brick, mortar,
Blood, tears and sweat,
For life and love.
Over some time,
The home grew larger,
Expanding far
Beyond a dream.
The unit for two
Grew to three and four,
A legacy that
Was built on love.
Like all things new,
The home aged in time.
The hallways became
Troubled chambers.
Time went beyond
The returning point,
The place had changed
From home to house.
Its floors were cracked,
Walls in disrepair,
The house of love
Was abandoned.
Hallways haunted
With what used to be,
The house of brick
Became granite.
The expansion
Continued onward,
Brick upon brick.
Death became it.
Like necrosis
Hell spread rampantly
From limb to limb
Within the house.
The hearth grew cold,
Each dying ember
Led to the spread
Of icy cold air.
The cracks agape
Welcome frigid air,
Painting the house
With glass-like ice.
The winds howl within,
This haunted abode.
The icicles
Form jagged teeth.
The house is now
A mausoleum,
Haunted within
By memories.
What was isn’t
And shall never be.
The tomb’s phantoms
Haunt every hall.
Each closet filled,
With strung skeletons,
Dangling from rope
Made in despair.