Skeletons in the Closet

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A poem that takes cliches literally:

Look there, atop that distant hill

Midst wafts of fog and chimney smoke

A gruesome family dwells there still

With cursed spirits they did invoke

Up the front walk, wrought iron climbs

Grey sky scraped with porcupine spires

Gates twisted thick with thorny vines

And roses red as savage fires

Great doors creak open to welcome in

Those who wander the moors alone

Hallowed earth has forgotten them

They’ll never left the shadowed home

In dark corners you think to hide

A mistake you’ll soon come to note

On your shoulder bone fingers slide

Slick and stained from the last slashed throat

This is the house where demons play

And gorge themselves on others’ fright

By slowly sucking souls away

And drowning what’s left in inky night

In every closet, every room

Laced with aged dust and bloodied crime

The family and their guests will loom

Counting the ticks of passing time

Damned against the warmth of the sun

Stripped of skin, they are barely men

And add to their fold one by one

A hungry, waiting skeleton

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