Nicotine stained walls pleading
for a fresh splash of white wash.
Gutter full of decayed leaves and
the porch smells of earthen mold.
The bread knife rests upon the old
cutting board, loaves long since gone.
Walk on a dirt and dusty kitchen floor
dried dead mouse resting by the door.
The basement stairs squeak and moan
with each step while swaying to and fro.
A voice heard whispering in a low groan,
my heart beats faster, more dangerously.
Audacious shrills and rapturous chills
residing upon a noxious molded grin
in a pig iron and saffron form while
suspended between bristle cone rafters.
Hasten to the outside door and climb out
past the root cellar and beyond the tracks.
Hear the muffled footsteps gain and stalk;
an adventure fades away into the black.
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet and Author originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night, Â playing guitar and time with his cats Merlin and Willa. Ken’s published work can be found throughout the Web in print and on line venues.
—Art by So-Ghislaine