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The house behind the old bed factory

A poem about an abandoned house that used to stand in Kesgrave that freaked me out and vanity. Hope you enjoy!

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The house behind the old bed factory

An autumn day is when we invaded, the house of kesgrave, now degraded
to nothing than to gothic lore, where dreary stories tell little more
than of the sorrow that shuddered through the walls
where wallpaper peels and dust gently falls
upon the off-white sheets and oaken furniture
the layers that cover the now stopped grandfather clock, paintings and mirrors

We enter,

underfoot the floorboards creaked and groaned, howling echoes with pain throughout the home
intrepidness, intrepidness that braved our hearts, we gazed with amazement upon the art
this freaky portal that we dared cross, with mouths agape, were at a loss
for remarks to roll off our tongues, the breath momentarily escaped my lungs

where we had so boldly dared, as we stood and stared
but nevertheless we carried on upstairs
to the dull master bedroom where the bed,  left empty, betrayed
a drawing table with letters some fantastical story the prose portrayed

In the room left grey with gloom, through the letter a story I was reading
my hearty sunk though not sincerely bleeding
I read the ink marked paper to read of some mortal horror of the “gold rimmed looking glass with a mysterious power”
it raised my intrigue as to what befouled the unfortunate occupier

so I had a peak at the mysterious antique
to comprehend what dark destruction this possession previously wreaked
a cooling breeze swirls through the room and all around
I turn quickly as a candlestick startles me and rattles lonesome on the ground

I look hard at the mirror…

i observe hard as my countenance reflects back, but then it begins to speak
“I must confess you are handsome, the handsomest I’ve ever seen, I’m sure that your ego is matched by the possession of a generous gift of vanity”
which is looming, exuding confidence which you may think will eternally last forever, that yourself, with the golden visage will it last? No not never!

“And since you love yourself so much, I make a barter than concerns thee;
that when the pale moon begins to rise in the sky, you will be the prophet to set me free;
since I am the one you read in the letter, am nearly 200 years old
I will control your body and dismiss your naïve soul!”

The mirror fogs over…

I declare defiantly, “are you a devilish piety? I will put up a fight I will not be taken quietly! You are wretched and bequeathed
the foulest of all foul beasts!
But a murmur came out, nor a scream nor a shout, “do not fight since you were destined to be lost, I will have my revenge my way at any cost!”

The grandfather clock heavily tones, everyone has abandoned this abandoned home…

An autumn day is when we invaded, the house of kesgrave, now degraded
I am now part of gothic lore, where dreary stories tell little more
of the sorrow that shuddered through the walls
where wallpaper peels and dust gently falls
upon the off-white sheets and oaken furniture
the layers that cover the now stopped grandfather clock, paintings and mirrors

and as Im now trapped in the mirror I did not escape in time,
and now I haunt this house forever because vanity was my last crime.

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