The weathered barn stands in ruin;
no longer a place for creatures
to take refuge and be cared for.
Hay turned into dust on the floor.
Stairs leading to a loft now empty,
on slats a raven precariously perched;
an omen to those who might enter
death dwells within these walls
Stains like splatter on the walls I see;
a chill runs up my spine; an image forms.
This place is death; its remnants felt
within my soul, I hear the screams.
The house beyond the barn sits still;
empty of laughter and of life once had.
Occupants long gone beneath the soil;
eerie sounds beckon from within the place,
where once a family shared their meals.
Windows shattered, by winds of time;
curtains freely blowing in the breeze.
A fireplace sits flames extinguished ;with
bricks disintegrating lying scattered;
offering no warmth for cold spirits there.
Decaying floors and hollow rooms that echo
all the sounds that filled them long ago.
A tattered rope hangs loosely from a beam
what manner death , who swayed on its end?
What of the rest; whose wails I hear around me?
An axe rests against a door, is it rust or aged blood?
The raven on window ledge knows but will not say
An omen to those that might enter into this place;
death lives within these walls..
My imagination or the Raven's truth?
evening shadows are coming soon to occupy
this place from which I must quickly flee.
Leaving its occupants to replay the day when
death came calling at their door.